


The Slave and the King

by Oneroika_Lunae



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Bjorn is so done, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Heahmund preaching, Historical Inaccuracy, Hvitserk gets better, Hvitserk is the bad guy here, Infidelity, Ivar (Vikings) Being an Asshole, Slavery, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threesome, Ubbe is the best, sorry someone had to be the mean one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2019-10-15 18:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oneroika_Lunae/pseuds/Oneroika_Lunae
Summary: Ivar finds one of the christian girls amusing during the conquest of York and takes her under his wing, believing she will be useful.In the end, will she be another pawn or will Ivar the Boneless finally find his match?





	1. York

**Author's Note:**

> I have fallen hard and fast for the new generation of raiding Vikings, and I specially have fallen for Ivar the Boneless.

Ivar stared intently at the slave that cowered in a corner of the ample room he had claimed for his own. The girl looked feral, eyes wide with panic, teeth bared in a sneer, hair tangled and matted with blood and grime. Her dress was torn and covered in dirt and the blood of her kin. He tried to smile reassuringly at her. He didn’t realize the smirk was more menacing than anything else, a gesture that, coupled to his intense blue eyes, gave him the look of a predator out of a nightmare, ready to strike. Ivar stopped a few steps away from the girl, and chuckled when the only response he got was a feral, desperate growl. 

“That looks like a really scared rabbit Ivar, she is not even pretty” Hvitserk complained, crouching by the girl as to get a better look at her. He didn’t saw whatever had made her special. The face might be symmetrical, but it did not possess a beauty worth the fuss Ivar had made to keep her from harm. The one thing Hvitserk could see, and most important, smell, was the grime that clung to her. The stain in her dress from where she had pissed herself the moment she had faced the Viking horde. Turning from the girl to his brother, he saw how Ivar looked just as excited as the moment they had taken the city. His eyes sparkled as he looked down at his new thrall with unmeasurable pride. 

Grimacing, Hvitserk tried to reach for her chin. He wanted to take a good look at her face. Maybe Ivar saw something that escaped him, but, What could it be?

As soon as his hand was within striking reach, the girl surged forward, clawing at his arm, biting his hand until he bled, hitting him square in the nose with a bony fist that did not have enough strength to break the bone, just to bruise. With a yelp of surprise, Hvitserk fell on his butt, the girl on top of him, still biting his hand, still beating and clawing at him as he tried to protect his face. Ivar’s laugh filled the room. He was standing right by them, manoeuvring with his crutches to clap, clearly amused.

Soon the surprise wore off and the warrior gave a terrible cry before striking the girl in the head, hard enough that she fell, dazed, to the ground. Once she hit the floor, he sat on top of her, and started to backhand her savagely, until her lips split, covering her teeth in red, and her nose was bleeding. Satisfied, Hvitserk closed his hand in a fist, but before he could touch her, a sharp, cold feeling in his neck stopped him. Ivar had unsheathed one of his daggers and held it dangerously closed to his artery. His little brother was not amused anymore. 

“Hvitserk, get off her. Now” His brother raised his arms with an annoyed expression, but Ivar kept his knife where it was. It had only proved him right, that the sad wretch that had huddle with other two girls in a corner had turned into a ravenous beast the moment his warrior had cut through the elderly couple that had used their bodies to shield them. She had barrelled into one of the Vikings, but her feather weight had done nothing to the seasoned warrior. 

He had been too busy tearing at her clothes to notice the girl unsheathing one of his daggers and plunging it in his neck. His friend had turned then ready to strike her down, but Ivar had taken one look at those fiery eyes and felt it would be a shame. He had stopped his warrior, who had been forced to dodge her clumsy attempts to stab him before knocking her around until she had been half unconscious. Ivar had made sure that, even though she had been put with the others, no one touched her. She had stayed there, in the mud and the blood, first hugging the other women, then all alone as the soldiers took them away one by one. She had cried and fought once again when they tried to separate her from a dark-haired young thing she had kept in her arms and protected with the fierceness of a she-bear. And in the end, when Ivar was settled and ready, he had called for her. 

He was not about to let his brother hurt her further. He had plans for her. He all but kicked his brother from the room, and he could see the spark of intelligence in her eyes as she took notice of the door, and the guards outside. She would remember it. Or at least, that’s what Ivar hoped.   
Gwyn was hurting. Her face, her body, her soul. She longed for the relief of prayer and the council of the priest, but he was no more. Neither would her parents embrace her and sooth her soul. 

They were gone, cut down by the heathens. Something was broken and bleeding inside her chest, and she felt raw and numb at the same time. All teachings about the mercy of the lord had left her. Inside her, the only thing left was a ravenous need to hurt and kill. To give back to the world the pain she felt inside, letting it loose upon the earth until there was nothing left in her heart and she was empty. Maybe she would feel better then, when there was nothing else in her heart. 

The heathens. They had violated the sanctity of the church. Raped the nuns, tortured their bishop. They had cut down her parents and took her sister away, no matter how hard she had clung to her hands. Gwyn had not been strong enough to keep her. 

And now she was going to be raped by the crippled beast that had been slithering around the church, among the corpses, like the serpent of the garden of Eden. Like the demon he was. She bared her teeth, never minding the split lip and the pain in her face from the beating she had taken from the other man. At least he had gone away. At least, god had been merciful in this miserable way, of not letting her be raped by two of them. 

He had cleaned the blood from his face and, dressed in fresh clothes, he looked almost human. His twisted limbs and chilling eyes gave him away though, as the spawn of Satan. He let go of the crutches, and the sound of the metal striking the stone made her jump from where she was lying of the floor. She tried to rise to her feet, but he was quick as lighting, he soon had dropped to the floor and was crawling towards her. She scurried backwards, terrified. 

The demon was coming for her. 

The demon was going to devour her. 

She tried to kick him in the face when he extended his hand towards her but failed. His fingers closed like a vice around her ankle and dragged her towards him. He was incredibly strong. She tried to hold on to the stones that made the floor but to no avail. She could feel his hands as he grabbed at her clothes to get her closer to his body. Gwyn clenched her jaw, and a mulish expression settled in her thin face. She was not going to give up. She would die fighting, she would never, ever, stop. With a growl, she twisted herself so she could be facing him, and swung her closed fist straight at his head. Catching her in his arms and pushing her against the cold stone floor seemed to be effortless to him, and a very amusing game, for he laughed. 

Ivar was extremely amused. To find such an interesting pet in this place! This Christian woman had the heart of a Valkyrie. He caught her and pinned her to the ground. She was crying, but the snarl on her face betrayed tears born out of anger, not fear. Good. He slowly backed away, leaving her laying there, trembling, and crawled all the way back to the bed, by which a slave had already prepared a bucket of warm water and a few rags. Ivar had sent them searching for something she could wear instead of her filthy clothes. He beckoned her closer with his hand, and, when she didn’t move, with a sharp word. She seemed to come alive to the sound of her language and she rose with a fierce scowl. She came closer once she caught sight of the water and the rags, but never within grasping distance. Clever, clever, Christian girl. 

“This water is for you, the dress too” Ivar said, with a smile. He exegeted the gestures, like the girl was stupid. Oh, but he knew she wasn’t. He was amusing himself watching the different expressions of her face as she watched in distrust. Next, he took the clothes, taken from a well-off house, personally chosen by him. He waved them in front of the girl, waiting for his prey to take the bait. Ivar couldn’t help to giggle as she did lunge to take the dress, admiring the soft fabric and the rich embroidery. Ivar let the rag fell into the bucket and dragged himself up into the bed, with his back resting against the headboard. 

“Please, do go on, you must be tired of being covered in grime” he smiled, smug. She growled at him. 

Gwyn looked at the Viking with hate. The dress in her hands was the softest, most delicate thing she had ever laid hands on, and it made her wonder what noblewoman had been stripped naked for this monster’s amusement. The gesture of the bastard towards the bucket froze her where she stood. She longed for a good scrub, but he was staring.

She held the new clothes to her chest as she looked around. She saw the chamber was fully furnished, with the bed, and a few trunks here and there. Finally, a table had been placed in the room, surrounded by chairs. She walked there and placed the fine dress on it. Then she came back, always making sure he was always in sight, that he hadn’t moved from the bed. He just sat there, arms sprawled, proud and smiling like a madman. Gwyn grabbed the bucket, and quickly dragged it back to the table. And the she started arranging the chairs and the table to build a flimsy little wall between her and the man. She put the dress over the structure, using the fabric to cover most of the view. The laugher and the loud clapping only made her angrier. She took her dress off in furious jerks, tearing the already mistreated cloth at some points, and added it to the barrier. The Viking only whistled and said something in his barbaric language. 

Ivar couldn’t be happier. He had expected the girl to either throw the clothes back to his face and go dirty, or being forced to forgo her modesty, maybe fumble around while trying to change and cover herself. He didn’t expect to watch her pile the chairs on top of the table and hang all the clothes to serve as barrier. He could see her legs under the table, if he twisted his body a bit. He could hear the sound of water as she dipped the rag in the bucket and scrubbed herself clean of grime. 

“Oh, little Christian, what fun we shall have. You will serve me well, I know”


	2. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar and his brothers make a bet involving his new slave

Ivar had paraded the girl around, dressed in fine clothes for all to see, for the best part of two days. She kept that feral act of hers up, snarling, and growling, hands clawing at her clothes, ready to strike. The prince had learnt a few things about the girl during those two days. She wouldn’t talk, no matter how much he taunted her, but Ivar had seen her respond to certain words in their language, mainly the basic orders of come and stay. She always frowned when he cooed at her with a good girl or called her his woman, and her face twisted with interest whenever she heard food or drink mentioned.

She was learning their language, he was sure of it. 

The second thing he noted, was, that, as long as she was left alone, his woman would find a place that protected her back and glare across the room, waiting. As for what she was waiting for, Ivar wasn’t that sure. Maybe it was a familiar face, maybe a chance to escape.

Right now, Ivar was making a little experiment. He had ordered her to serve mead to his men, who jeered and leered and she passed. Her frown had deepened with each pass at her ass that she dodged, and he was waiting for the moment that she would snap. 

It took her another hour, and someone trying to pull her into their lap. 

Ivar laughed until his sides got sore when she hit the man square in the head with the pitcher she was holding, breaking it in two and leaving the man bleeding in his seat and covered in mead. She stood there, defiant, teeth bared, waiting for the others to act. Ivar interceded and harshly called her to his side. 

With his arm possessively curled around her waist, he kissed her stomach. She hissed and scratched his scalp as she pulled his hair. Hard. Against the soft fabric of her dress, he smiled.  
“That beast of yours needs to be tamed” his brother said. Hvitserk was glaring at the girl, still angry at her for attacking him. Ivar laughed again and brought the girl closer to him. She was resisting his pull, as not to end up seated in his lap. Her grip in his hair grew stronger, and he let out a quiet moan, before smiling candidly at her. The girl’s face scrunched up in disgust and let go of his hair like she had just burn herself. 

“And you think you can tame her brother? A fine Valkyrie like her would not bend to you” Ivar said, without breaking eye contact with his woman. She was scowling, like always. Her clever eyes were filled with the fire of deep hatred. Idiot that he was, Hvitserk was right. He will need a good strategy if he was to win her over. 

“To begin with, you have been spoiling her too much for a thrall. She needs to learn to obey. You have to punish her, or she will keep being a proud bitch” 

“It’s his thrall, Hvitserk, leave him be” called Ubbe from the other side. He was really done with his little brothers fighting over women, be it their mother or a simple thrall. Since Sigurd had died, each time they started bickering the only thing Ubbe could see was that axe embedded in his little brother’s chest. He had seen Ivar’s face, the surprise in his expression, the regret and terror in his eyes. But if he had killed one of them, what will stop him from doing it again? 

He observed the girl trapped in Ivar’s arms. She wasn’t very remarkable. The long hair was shiny and had a pretty colour, falling in gentle waves around her heart shaped face. Her skin was slightly darker than their skin, the lips could have been kissable and inviting if they were not hardened into a tight line by poorly repressed disgust. The frown didn’t help her case. The eyes, almond shaped, had a pretty colour, but the fiery wild look on them was more apt for a rabid wolf than a human being. 

“No, no, let him speak Ubbe” Ivar answered, a big grin in his face. “I would love to hear what advice my brother will share with me”. Hvitserk pouted and started shoving food into his mouth, grunting. Ivar was delighted. The plan that had formed in his mind not only would amuse him to no end for the long winter days before they could began fighting again, it will deliver his woman right into his hands. She will become his, by her own free will. 

What a sweet conquest would that be. What a delightful victory, to prevail over one with such strength of will. 

“Actually, why don’t we make a bet, uh?” he said, in a tone carefully controlled, to resemble the surprise of a newly occurred idea, and not a plot that he had been concocting for the better part of the evening. 

“What bet?” Ubbe asked, always suspicious, his big brother was, he had learnt to be wary of Ivar’s mind, and the younger Ragnarson couldn’t but swell with pride of the fact. The mention of a bet seemed to weight more to Hvitserk that his brother’s barbed words, and he raised his head once more from his plate.

“About what?” he said, words half distorted over a mouth full of half chewed food. Ivar’s grin grew bigger.

“Her, of course.” This time, he managed to pull the girl straight into his lap. He supressed a grunt of pain as she fell on his legs. He rearranged her so he was squeezing her like some sort of teddy bear. She growled and hissed, trying to get out of his arms, but he was so much stronger than her. In the end, she just slumped back, leaning into him, just to pinch him viciously in the arms and legs, enticing another bout of laughter out of Ivar. 

“Hear me out brothers. You have seen her, she is wild, and you are right Hvitserk, she needs to be tamed” Ivar was careful with his words, delighting himself in the warmth of her body in his arms and the softness of her hair in in fingers as he combed through the shiny locks. 

“We take turns and see who can make her comply first. Let’s say, the one who gets her to obey without behaving like a wild animal, wins. Or maybe, if he can get her to speak, Mmm?” Ivar bent to caress her neck with his nose, inhaling the smell that was soap, mead, smoke, sweat and her.

Gwyn was tense as a bow while she allowed herself to be manhandled by that beast. She could not escape from his strong grip, something she had discovered to her disgust in those early hours. She could no move him an inch even if she pushed with all her might, and he could drag her around like a ragdoll. She contented herself with growling warnings at his wandering hands and hissing at his rude indecorous actions. 

The last two days had been a flurry of being dragged from one point to another, always standing by the demon, Ivar his name was. She had seen some of the other girls that had been with her in the cage at first, or some others that she had known from before, that had been kept as what the heathens called Thralls but were plain slaves. She had followed them with her eyes, counting, thinking, making a mental list of how many of them were still alive. Most of the survivors were young girls that the warriors had spared to serve as house slaves and bed warmers. 

The Demon had not made a move in that front yet, but Gwyn was always alert, just in case. She has seen many of her fellow Christians being abused by the heathens in the corridors or heard the screams coming from the rooms where they kept the slaves. She had been escorted to those rooms by two guards each night, and back to the Demon’s side early in the morning, to wait on him hand and foot when the moment he woke up. She hadn’t been able to exchange but a few words with the others, for fear she would be caught. They had reassured her that they were all alive, though bruised and battered. And none of them had been able to tell her about her sister. 

Gwyn was obsessed with finding her, but deep inside she knew that, she would not like what she will find out about her pretty little sister, the envy of all the town, with even rich merchants showing interest in her. She will end up killing someone, and, if she wanted them both alive by the end of their ordeal, she had to be smart about it. 

The Demon seemed more lenient with her than with the others, laughing at her acts of violence and stopping the men from punishing in harder ways than a few slaps. Right now, seething as she was, trapped in his lap, enduring his disgusting touch, she knew they were talking about her. It was generally talk about her when the Demon said that word, Valkyrie. Also, the looks coming from the other commanders and the way they kept saying the word thrall pretty much gave away the subject of their conversation. 

Ivar saw his brothers exchange a look of surprise and amusement. Ubbe didn’t seem pretty convinced, disapproval clear in his face. Hvitserk though, took the bait clear of the hook.   
“Anything goes?” he asked.

“As long as she doesn’t end up maimed or deformed, anything you want. Also, brother, she is mine to fuck” Ivar said this last thing tightening his grip on the girl and glaring viciously at his brother. Hvitserk was petty enough to fuck her just to enrage Ivar. But she was his woman, and only he would lay with her. Hvitserk snorted.

“There are prettier thralls to fuck than your wild bitch, I have no interest in her” Ivar was going to give his brother a good tongue lashing, wanting to punish him for daring to critique his choice, when Ubbe broke his silence.

“What do we get, if we win? Uh?” 

“I don’t know brother, what do you want?” Ivar smiled. He had a pretty good idea about what he was going to ask for. He had been thinking how to use this bet to his benefit since the idea had occurred to him.

“Peace. And the settlement” Ubbe said. Ivar rolled his eyes and sighed. So predictable. So stupid. So much like everyone else. He had the sudden urge to explain the situation to his woman, to hear what she would have to say about the whole affair. To his surprise, it was Hvitserk who complained.

“Ugh, Ubbe. Be more original, would you?” his older brother smirked and turned to glare at Ivar. “When I win, Ivar, you stop giving yourself so many airs and consult everything army related with us” He then nodded at Ubbe “You will let us stablish a settlement, and, you will give me the woman”

“I have no interest in the woman” Ubbe complained.

“Well, you can go farm if you win, but I want the woman. After all, I will be the one taming her, right?” Ivar’s grip tightened until a vicious pinch in his thigh had him looking at the girl’s scowling face. She wasn’t happy about being squeezed like a grape. He patted her head like she was a lap dog and turned his attention to his brother once more. 

“I accept your conditions brothers. But, If I win, I will be the sole commander of this army” Ubbe sighed. He hadn’t been happy before, and wasn’t happy now, but this might be a chance for Ivar to listen. 

“Then, let’s give her a week with each of us, and then see how it goes, yes?” He began to rise, when Ivar noise of disapproval had him sitting down and scowling at his baby brother. “What now, Ivar?”

“Well, it seems rather unfair to me, that, having both the same goal, you will have double the time with her, don’t you think?” Ivar had a look in his eyes Ubbe knew very well. It was the look he always had when their enemies walked right into one of his traps. Ubbe felt like cursing. 

“Ivar…”

“A week and a half, better like that right? And I will have another week and a half, yes? And then, and then we will see who had gotten her to obey like a good slave”

Ubbe felt cold dread lacing his chest and could not make himself swallow around the lump in his throat. He knew they had been defeated before they even tried. He hung his head.

“Yes”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment I get my tumblr working again I will add a link here on the notes in case you want to talk to me about the fics and my work <3
> 
> Please be patient I will have it solved soon.
> 
> Hope you like it ( remember, kudos and comments are always apreciated) 
> 
> Love, Luna <3


	3. Brothers I

When the Demon handed her over to the other two commanders, Gwyn was scared. She froze in place, terrified. She had had a certain degree of protection under the Demon’s wings, but these two were uncharted territory. And that meant danger. They spoke her language with a heavy accent and had a more limited vocabulary than the demon. It was more difficult to understand them, but the biggest of the two had tried to conduct all their conversations in front of Gwyn in English. The reason behind this change, she couldn’t imagine. 

“you are with us now” the big one said. He pointed at the savage with the odd braids and then at himself “this is my brother Hvitserk. I am Ubbe”. 

She nodded once, looking at his eyes, to make him know that she had heard and understood. He seemed gentle enough for now. Initial shock gave way to plotting. Gwyn studied the brothers. She already knew the braided one, Hvitserk, was violent and would beat her up if she gave him half a chance and not a single reason. He will hurt her for the mere fact she had been touched by the demon. And Hvitserk hated the demon, not matter how close they were to be leading together. 

The big one, Ubbe, she didn’t know well. He guided her to rooms that, though close to those of the demon’s, were just a little bit smaller. And occupied. By the way they both headed towards their cots, by them. Gwyn panicked, and plastered herself against a wall. Back protected by the stone, her eyes roamed the room searching for a weapon. Not far, several axes were carefully laid on the floor, left behind by their owned halfway through their sharpening. She could feel her heart beating wildly in her chest. She was no rival for them, and she wanted more than anything to escape. 

Hvitserk chose that moment to snarl at her to go fetch water. He came far too close to her liking, taking a few menacing steps to reinforce his command. Gwyn hissed and tried, to no avail, to melt into the wall at her back. The giant Viking then shouted something in his tongue, took a giant step forward, and, quick as lightning, he swung his giant fist towards her. She felt with a grunt and a growl to the floor. She managed to stand on all fours, just to be kicked in the gut. With a grunt, she went down again. A hand came to fist her hair, dragging her to her feet and forcing her to stand on her tip toes. It was painful. She growled and bared her teeth.

“I told you to fetch us water, woman. You will do as I, your master, say, or you will be punished.” He pushed her and she fell again to the floor. When she rose to her feet, the big one, Ubbe, was frowning in their direction, clearly displeased. Gwyn let then tears to flood her eyes, trying to play on what little softness the brute had in his heart.

Ubbe was exasperated. His stupidity had got him in this mess, but clearly Hvitserk’s idiocy will cost him more than he wanted to pay. He snapped at his brother.

“Hvitserk! Odin have mercy, you are only giving her more reasons to behave like that!”

“I have seen this bitch in action. It will be the stick or nothing with this one” Ubbe sighed. He rose from where he had sat and paced the room.

“Gentle, Hvitserk. Gentle. She probably behaves like that because she is scared… if we are nice… she is a little girl, after all…” His brother laughed and clapped his hand on Ubbe’s shoulder, turning him to face the English woman, who now was hiding behind a chair and inching towards the door. As they had argued, she had managed to take one of the knives Ubbe had left at the table and was clearly aiming to hid it in her clothes. Ubbe rose, and carefully, slowly, walked towards her. He extended his hand. 

“Please” he said, in her tongue. His blue eyes were as sincere as he could make them.

Gwyn blushed at being caught sneaking the knife, and like a chastened child, he hung her head and dropped the knife in Ubbe’s hand. She felt guilty for what she had done after looking in his blue, blue eyes. She felt herself blush and she dared to look carefully the man before her. Tall, muscular, and fit, he had a handsome face, with haunting blue eyes, the most shocking shade of blue she had ever seen. His dirty blonde hair fell into a strange braid down his back. Gwyn wondered how long it would be once freed from it’s restrains. She wondered how he would look with the locks falling freely around his face, his toned neck and chest. Then she blushed bright red and dropped her head, she hopped that it was taken as a gesture of obedience, instead of the shame she had felt for thinking about a savage being handsome. 

“See?” Ubbe showed the knife to Hvitserk, victorious “Patience and kindness”

“If she doesn’t speak to you in three days, she will be mine to do as I please”

“Eh”

And with that grunt, Ubbe, unknowingly sealed Gwyn’s fate, and with hers, all of their fates. 

Those days Ubbe had Gwyn, he always spoke English to her, and began to teach her their tongue. She now understood simple commands, and some words. He had allowed her to sleep in a pile of blankets at the feet of his bed and gave her good food. He chastised her in English, never rising his voice. He didn’t touch her inappropriately, or gave her over to the other men, the way some thralls had been given to the warriors. But Gwyn had not spoken. She had not communicated in anything but grunts, and continued to be difficult, baring her teeth to those she felt were talking about her, snarling at the soldiers, and even biting Ivar when he tried to pet her whenever he saw her. 

When Hvitserk’s turn came, if Gwyn had known about the bet, she would have spoken to Ubbe that first night he allowed her to sit at a table for supper and sleep in a place that wasn’t either filthy or covered in mud. 

Hvirserk was always hounding Gwyn. She was punished at the minimal sign of rebellion, which of course meant she was always covered in bruises. He had starved her after the beatings and screamed at her to talk. Which had only served to keep Gwyn quiet. The cold nights on the hard rock floor were the worst. 

They left her hurting and stiff, and the Viking seemed to wake up in the middle of the night with the most irritating requests. From a glass of water to sending her in the middle of the night to the stables to look for a knife he had in his clothes chest, but that he had forgotten in the stables. 

She had had enough and threw a good pile of manure straight at Hvitserk’s head when he was supervising her cleaning of the stables. The whole stables. All by herself. While he waited not further than four steps away. He had kept muttering in his tongue all the time, and even if she did not understand everything, she could understand his tone well enough. His face when the dung hit him square in the face made Gwyn grin. 

Oh, she was going to be killed over this. Skinned or bloody eagled, even, but for his face at that moment, she couldn’t care less. She secretly hoped his mouth had been wide open when she flung her projectile at him. 

With a war cry, he threw himself at her in return, but she swirled aside and brought the heavy wooden shovel straight at his as, giving him an extra impulse that ended with the Viking head first in a pile of hay. Gwyn laughed. He raged. Following her common sense, Gwyn didn’t let go of the shovel, and ran out of the stables. He was hot on her heels as she dodged through the streets, chest heaving, short of breath and flooded with fear, when she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure, covered in the tattered remains of her clothes, being led by the arm by a tall, muscular warrior she recognised as one of the demon’s guards.

She changed directions and started chasing after her sister. 

In the end she lost her in the streets but ended up facing the whole demon guard. Hot on her heels Hvitserk howled in rage, and she turned to face him, shovel ready to strike. 

“I will skin you alive and wear you as a cloak, you little rat” he spat. Gwyn’s hands were sweaty, but she scowled and planted her feet in the ground. If he wanted a fight, by god he will have one. She would go down in a blaze, and the holy father would praise her for choosing to die fighting the heathens instead of cowering at their feet.


	4. Ivar

Ivar was left speechless. He didn’t know what to do, and that was something that didn’t happen to him very often. But right in front of him, his Valkyrie was holding a wooden shovel covered in shit and was squaring herself up to try and take Hvitserk out with the damn thing. And then he took a good look at his brother.

Covered in shit.

A great big blotch of it caking his face, neck and shirt. He had tried and wipe it off, but, Odin’s beard, the thing was all over him. In his confusion, Ivar could not help his reaction.

He laughed.

And laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until the artists had to stop mid tattoo and the rest of his guard was snickering too. Ivar knew he had miscalculated when he saw the savage glint in his brother’s eyes when he heard how they laughed at him. He recognized it as the same madness that had dragged him to throw that axe at Sigurd, in what seemed it had been another life, but had been just a few weeks before. Ivar opened his mouth to shout, to issue the order to stop Hvitserk, but he realized, with horror, that he was too close to the girl. Not a sound came out of his mouth, and the fear in his face twisted into anger when Ivar realized that now that he needed it, his voice was as useless as his legs. 

Gwyn was so close to pissing herself that when the Viking lunged at her, that the fact she didn’t soiled herself as she ducked, was already a victory in her book. She couldn’t distract herself though, because as soon as he regained his footing, the blonde behemoth of a man was charging at her once more, lacking the usual grace she had seen the brothers exhibits these past few days as they trained. Ubbe had had her sit there and wait for his signal to bring them cups full of mead and refreshments as they saw fit. So, she had sat. And she had watched. And she had learnt. This one was fast, vicious and graceful when fighting, until his brother barked one or two things at him in that language of theirs that had him frothing at the mouth like a mad dog, and he would then charge like an enraged bull at whatever was in front of him. Ubbe had defeated him several times using that tactic of his. He would taunt him, wait, and then, as he dodged, he would cuff him in the head with his long arm. It had always sent the younger Viking face first into the ground.

She wondered if she could pull that off if he was stupid enough to charge her again. She wasn’t tall enough. Her arms were quite a bit shorter than Ubbe’s. Gwyn felt the weight of the shovel in her hands. That was it! That was the strong long arm she needed. 

She couldn’t think very much about what to do next, because Hvitserk, already recovered, had turned around with a scream of pure rage and was running at her. Gwyn kept her eyes open though she wanted nothing more than close them tightly, readied the shovel in her hands, and, as she twirled away from him, she spun around and brought the shovel right on top of his shoulders, missing the neck and the head, and the fatal blow that it could have been. But it was enough. With the added strength to his momentum and the sudden push down, Hvitserk went sprawling into the dirt and mud of the closeted street. 

There was a deafening silence. None of the other Vikings said a word, as they were all too busy gaping at her and glancing first to the fallen son of Ragnar Lothbrook, then to the tiny, filthy and bruised Christian girl. They were all taller than her by at least a head. All of them trained warriors. 

Ivar didn’t know what love was. 

Sure, he loved his mother fiercely, but it was a son’s love for his mother. He had loved Floki and Helga like the united family he wished he had had. He loved Ragnar, right at the end, when the love he could have for the ghost of his father gave way to the love of a father who had seen him, him, with his crippled, useless legs, and had proclaimed him a worthy heir. 

But if he had ever loved a woman like one of the heroes Sigurd liked to sing about ( He had loved Sigurd too, like he loved all his brothers, but he had killed their love for him the same day he had thrown that stupid axe, and he regretted it, but couldn’t fix it, he didn’t know how) If he had known what it was to love a woman, then, it must be a feeling just like the one he was feeling then.

He wished Floki was with him. He would have been able to explain.

He put special care in reigning the laughter in. He would not alienate Hvitserk any further by laughing at him. But first the shit and now the mud. And even before that, that bite she had taken from his hand when he got too close. For a warrior, for a Viking, being bested time and time again by a thrall was, in one word, humiliating. 

Sadly, none of the men he had recruited for his guard was as merciful as he. The chorus of laughter that followed was aimed both at the man that was righting himself up form the floor, and the girl, who seemed incredibly surprised by what had just happened, like it wasn’t her who had hit the warrior and the culprit had just shoved the makeshift weapon into her hands before running away. That seemed to be the last drop. Hvitserk, in a way that was worthy of Ivar, exploded in rage.

Gwyn had missed the head and the brute was picking himself up. She had wanted to flee, but she had nowhere to run now. Ubbe gave her to the brute after a few days, and hadn’t contacted her except to order more mead, when the days she was his servant he would offer her food or drink, and talk to her in English, chattering about how different things where in here, and how their society worked, and about his mother the famous volva, or his father the famous adventurer. He talked about his other brother and how he missed him, about how he was killed. He had asked a million questions that she had never answered. About her family, about her friends, about her life, about her god, the church, the king, the princes, the lords. He wanted information about the kingdom alright and thought that sharing some of his own would soften her up. But Gwyn would rather cut her own neck that help them torment their people any longer. But he had been kind, and treated her like a person, and she regretted it deeply that she hadn’t been kinder, for he would not have passed her into his brother’s care, and she wouldn’t have had to suffer the brute’s whims and his anger.

Ubbe would have stopped him, for sure, and then scold her in that patient way of his, his shinning blue eyes terribly disappointed in a way that made Gwyn want to hang her head and apologize. 

But Ubbe wasn’t there, and Hvitserk was quite fast. By the time Gwyn had dropped the shovel and lifted her skirts to run, he already was upon her, and the first punch to her face was followed by the sickening crunch of her nose, which exploded in a fountain of blood. Pain clouded her vision. Another blow had her ears ringing and the hands tearing at her scalp pulled the hair so hard she screamed when a few strands were pulled root and all. Gwyn spat a mouthful of blood into the muddy ground, and then gasped when she was thrown to the floor and the brute’s hands closed tightly around her throat. Tears were streaming down her cheeks from the pain. She could feel the pressure building, her skin prickling, and she felt like her head was going to explode. Air. She needed air.

Ivar was barking orders even before she was on the floor, but the men were cautious to approach Hvitserk. Tales of their uncle Rollo and his exploits as a Viking berserker must have been in their heads, but Ivar couldn’t allow them to disobey him, and he couldn’t allow his Valkyrie to get hurt. Grabbing the axe he always kept close by, he threw himself to the floor, right in the same moment Hvitserk started to strangle Gwyn. 

Air. Air. AIR. She needed to breathe, or she was going to die. A tiny part of her whispered that maybe it was better that way, that she would escape the heathens and go to heaven as a martyr. But there was a bigger, louder part of her that protested. If she died, she would never be free on her own lands again. She would not see her sister, she would not get back at the heathens for what they had done to her family. 

With all the strength that she had left, she twisted and turned in his grip, clawing at his arms and face until she draw blood, They rolled together in the mud, one punching and the other scratching, the big Viking trying to get a hold once again of her neck, she pulled at his hair until she had a few precious golden strands clutched in her hands. Gwyn scratched his face and felt the red droplets falling of her face. Right when she was getting close to his eyes, she was pulled off him. Or he was pulled off her. At that point, she couldn’t tell. Panting, coughing now that her neck was freed of the pressure of his hands, she tried to crawl away, only to find herself face to face with the demon, that was looking at her with a thunderstruck expression. In his had was clutched and axe. Gwyn looked at the weapon, then at the man, and then she calmly rose to her feet, hand massaging her sore throat, and the other clutching her dress to hide the tremors that showed the fear she had. If he was going to cut her down for what she had done, let him have to ask someone to either right him up of bring her to her knees. 

Ivar had watch them roll and attack each other like vicious animals. He was astonished. He was elated. He was… He was in love. He was certain. He wanted to take that marvellous fiery woman and hold her close to him. Smell her hair, feel her warmth. What a woman. What a treasure! And to think that she was in a place like this. Back in Kattegat, she would have been a great shieldmaiden. One to rival Lagertha, or even his very own grandmother. As many a thing that Ivar allowed or plotted to happen, he simply wanted to know what would happen. He signalled for his men to stay, and he let them have a go at it. Hvitserk was bleeding, and Ivar was sure some of those would scar. On the other hand, one of her eyes was already closing, dark purple bruises covering her face. The nose was swelling, and Ivar couldn’t tell if it was truly broken or not. Hvitserk had his hands around her neck once more and was squeezing as he screamed right in her face, tiny drops of saliva flying everywhere, face bloody and marked with thin lines from her nails. He saw the mulish expression on her uninjured eye, and he saw the hands that started to climb through Hvitserk’s face, first to push him away, and then making their way towards his eyes. Alarmed, Ivar signalled his men to break them apart. 

His brother went down screaming. She tried to crawl away and found herself face to face with him. Ivar prayed to the gods his face didn’t show how besotted he was with her. She took a look at him, surprised, maybe even afraid, and then at the axe he had been holding in his hand. He saw her square her shoulders, and rise, slowly, shaking and panting, to her feet. She was clutching her dress so tightly that the knuckles of that hand were white. Her head was proud, and she was looking down on him like a queen to a supplicant. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother Ivar at all. He felt like a bolt of lightning was running down his spine. 

“LET ME AT HER” Hvitserk was screaming at the top of his lungs “I WILL KILL THAT BITCH MYSELF, I WILL BLOODY EAGLE HER” he was completely out of it. Four men were restraining him and for the first time, Ivar wondered what had happened to his brother, for him to think he wasn’t the family’s monster anymore. 

Ivar looked at his brother, frowning. 

Maybe it had been Sigurd’s death. Maybe it had been the fact that he had returned home only to find himself motherless, fatherless and exiled to a small hut. Maybe it had been the steady rhythm at which he had been losing power in the Great Army, first bending to Bjorn’s will as the eldest, then to Ubbe, and now to Ivar. Or the way they had sneaked behind Ivar’s back to try and make peace with the Christians only to have their arses kicked to hel and back. 

Or, maybe, it was the fact that, and Ivar was sure of it now, Hvitserk had eaten some of the shit flunked at him and now was humiliated and angry. 

“You will leave her alone” he whispered angrily, grabbing the fabric of her skirts and dragging her down until she was kneeling behind him. His brother was still shouting threats and spitting around, so he signalled the guards that were holding him. Instantly, they dragged him to Ivar and made him drop to his knees. This rough treatment seemed to get through to Hvitserk, who was now blinking owlishly at Ivar, like he had just woken from a bad dream. 

Ivar crawled to him, axe still in his hand. He grabbed his brother’s shirt, carefully avoiding the shit stains. 

His face was inches away from Hvitserk’s. 

“You. Will. Leave her. ALONE” He said, and Hvitserk’s eyes went huge, noticing the axe casually resting against his heart. When Ivar let him go, his men released him too, and Hvitserk dropped like a puppet with his strings cut. He was panting. Ivar turned around and left him behind.

He made a sign to the girl to follow him, and, though it took her a few moments, she sprung to her feet and started walking by his side, far enough that he would not be able to grad her ankles by surprise, close enough to stay protected by his presence. Ivar did not correct her, thought thralls should walk behind their masters, not beside them, like equals, but well. 

If Ivar’s plan worked, and they always did, she would not be a thrall much longer.


	5. Room for healing

He guided her back to the same rooms she was when she was presented to her new master. The demon, for once, was silent as he crawled by her side, and Gwyn couldn’t help but wonder why. Probably thinking what kind of punishment would fit her crime. She sighed, feeling defeated. She had promised herself to be strong, fanned the fires of her rage, drawing strength from it. But she was so sure she was going to be tortured and killed that the fire seemed to have shrunk into a few embers at the bottom of her soul. 

Ivar crawled to the bed, and sat himself on it, barking orders left and right, for his guards to bring a healer, to fetch food and drink, to bring his woman clean clothes. He called at his Valkyrie, and then pointed at the bed. He was sure the worry he felt showed on his face, but for once, he didn’t thought of it as weakness. She came, but it was like she was empty and the shell she had become moved like it was made of metal, stiff and cold. He dragged himself closer to her and rearranged his legs so he could watch her better. Ivar wondered what could have happened in such short amount of time. She had had such fire in her only a moment ago. 

Ivar took her hand in his, examining the nails covered in blood and picking at the red clumps underneath. She allowed it, staring forward, to a place or time Ivar couldn’t imagine. He wanted to know what was, that had her in such a state, wondering if one of the brutal hits to the head she took before was the cause of her dizziness. Such injuries could be really troublesome. 

He should watch for any of the signs that came with them, he was responsible, in a way, for every blow she took when he could have had Hvitserk removed immediately. But before he could even ask what was on her mind, the healer arrived, with her box full of herbs and potions, and she swept the girl to one side of the bed, while Ivar looked, impotent. He had to win her over. This wasn’t a game anymore. Well, it would be a game, but with much higher stakes. He was going to teach her to be one of them, beginning by their language. He had decided. She would be a shieldmaiden worthy of the sagas they’ll write for them, their names entwined in the songs for all eternity.

He longed for Floki, and sweet Helga. They would have known what to do, counsel him on how to act. He wanted her. He wanted her so much it hurt. Glorious as she was, covered in dirt and mud, regal like a queen even when she had been enslaved. He had wanted women before, it was true. He had wanted Margrete, fiercely so, filled with the desire to be like his siblings, to possess, to own. This time though, it was different. She was a thrall like Margrete, but he felt no right to order her into his bed. He felt nervous and insecure around her as he hadn’t felt in a long long time. Inadequate. Ivar was more conscious of his deformed legs and handsome brothers than ever. How he had seethed, when handsome Ubbe and dashing Hvitserk had had her for all eight days. But they hadn’t been able to appeal to her, for all their looks. He wanted her to look at him. To really look at him and see Ivar. Not the man he had built for his ambition. But the boy that he had once been, foolishly believing that the younger crippled brother of four handsome strong princes would be anything but mocked. He wanted her to look at him and see a man worthy of her time, of her love… of her warmth.

Gwyn allowed the woman to poke and prod at her to her heart’s content, up to the moment when she tried to undo the pins fastening her robes together. There she growled a warning to the woman before she bared her teeth savagely. It was a nit trick that had served her before with the others. It generally got an amused chuckled or an arm readying itself to strike in response. The healer, and older woman the age of her mother, was unimpressed. She arched a brow and went on her merry way stripping her clothes from her. Nervous, Gwyn realized that the demon was still in the room with her. The guards were at the door. She slapped the gentle hands away, and once more when the healer tried to open her robes once more. Exasperated, the healer barked something in their foul language to the demon, but Gwyn, after only a few weeks, hadn’t learnt enough to make out the meaning. It was then when the demon flinched, grimaced at the healer and dragged himself across the bed to come up right behind her. 

Her heart seemed to jump all the way to her throat, and Gwyn whined in distress. She drove her elbow back with all her strength, but it was caught by a warm, big hand. His other had grabbed at her other elbow, trapping her. She kicked at the woman, desperate. What was happening? What were they going to do to her? Who was the woman?

She looked around wildly, eyes round and big with fear. There were four of the warriors that had been on the alley by the door, five, if you counted the demon. Five men. And a woman with a box full of ointments and a giant bed where they were pinning her down. 

Gwyn bolted. One of her kicks caught the woman in the chest, sending her back on her ass and propelling Gwyn backwards. With an undignified whelp, the demon, unprepared, was crushed by Gwyn’s body as she fell. She used the impulse to roll right over him and dragged herself to the floor, searching around for some kind of weapon. 

There! 

Right there in the bed was an axe. 

Gwyn clutched it to her chest and prayed to the lord for that gift. Brandishing it with her right hand, Gwyn backed herself to the corner, growling and trying to find a way to escape. She knew where they were. She knew how the corridors were laid, and the route out. She had been patient, committing the patterns to memory, waiting for the chance to escape. But the men did not even flinch. Some of them even laughed. The demon was still sprawled on the bed, grinning like a madman. The only one who seemed to be upset was the healer, rubbing her left hip and muttering things left and right. 

The demon reached at her with his arms, not moving from his position on the bed. Laying there, hair wild, eyes shinning an enchanting blue and that cheeky, twisted smile in his lips, he looked like a fallen angel. Gwyn’s mind could picture him as lucifer as he fell to hell. Beautiful, but terrible. Gwyn understood only a little of what he was saying to her, but was clearly beckoning her to come closer, closer, closer… 

Clearly it was a trick, if he wanted her near him was so he could devour her. 

She raised the axe.

How terribly ironic it would be, Ivar thought, if he were to die by the same axe that had ended Sigurd’s life. 

“Come to me, my Valkyrie, how feisty you are, still spoiling for a fight. Wasn’t enough for you that you fought my brother and won? Come to me. Let us clean your wounds and lay by my side. Come” He beckoned her close with his hand once again, but her only reaction was to raise the axe higher. 

Something stirred in Ivar. He pictured her as feisty as now, but all that power was focused on a sword and aimed at his enemies. She would be magnificent, shining brightly in the battlefield, covered in blood… And then she would be filled with battlelust, and they could…

yes… 

yes… 

with her… 

It could be different.

It would be different. He was sure of it.

Better, sweeter… right.

He felt a sudden warmth coursing through his veins, a jolt of electricity that shook him whole, and Ivar could feel how he was getting hard, just by thinking of her tugging at his clothes, snarling at him to just touch her... 

A pat on his leg brought him out of his fantasy, the old healer clearly annoyed by the whole display. Ivar frowned. The old crone didn’t even blink.

“Prince Ivar, I have to tend to her wounds. Now. Prince Hvitserk is a strong man and that poor girl took quite the beating” Ivar looked at her, sighed, and turned to his woman. While dragging himself through the bed until he was propped against the wall, he called to her in English.

“Valkyrie, the healer only wants to tend to your wounds. I promise you, on my honour and the soul of my father, Ragnar, who is feasting with Odin in the golden halls of Valhalla, that you will not be harmed again. You are under my protection, now and for always. This I swear to you, those who would seek to harm you will die screaming at my hands” This seemed to do nothing for the girl, who was just staring in shock, gaping and eying nervously at the guards at the door. Ivar was disappointed but masked it to the best of his ability. Which meant that he pouted and looked like a kicked puppy, wondering why such a sincere and solemn pledge wasn’t answered with a declaration of undying love.

Then he remembered that he was the leader of the army that sacked her country, destroyed her family, conquered their city, enslaved her, and she had seen him killing that priest. 

Ivar really, really wished Floki was there with him.

The healer cleared her throat, loudly. He glared.

“Maybe, my prince, the young lady would be more inclined to cooperate if we were left alone. She has had enough men beating her today to not want to be naked in front of any of them now” Ivar nodded, and signalled for his men to leave. They reluctantly did, though they kept giving nervous looks to the axe the girl was holding. He snorted and ushered them out of the door. 

The old crone cleared her throat again. Louder this time.

“What?!” he snapped. She was still bleeding from the few cuts she had in her face. Ivar wanted her to stop bleeding already. It was making him nervous. 

“My prince, you should leave too” she said, in a stern tone that reminded Ivar of Floki when Ivar was being especially mulish about something.

“Nonsense old woman, you would need help if she gets difficult, and I speak her tongue” Ivar had left her before, and it hadn’t worked really well for any of them. Also, he felt a pang of pain in his chest when he thought of leaving her. He wanted to make her happy, to keep her safe and comfortable. 

“Leave” she asked again.

“No”

“You are a man, prince Ivar, and I have to strip her naked to see how badly it is” The healer said, in that particularly annoying tone reserved for children or very slow people. 

“So? Just do it” Ivar clenched the covers of the bed without even realising he was doing it. He wasn’t going to leave. He reclined in the bed and closed his eyes, covering his face with one of his arms for good measure. “I will not peek old woman, if that’s what is holding you back. If you want to talk to her, speak, and I shall translate”


	6. first steps

Gwyn didn’t know what to make out of all of that. It made no sense. The woman had talked calmly to the monster, and he had listened. Was she some kind of leader? She didn’t look like the other warrior women that fought with their men. But she surely had the demon’s ear, because soon he was ordering with sharp words and gestures the other warriors out of the door. Then he made himself comfortable on the bed and closed his eyes, like he was about to take a nap. Gwyn’s heart beat wildly. She could try and run now, she was surely faster than the old woman, she was armed, the demon would be slow on taking himself to the floor. 

The other warrior might be waiting outside though. 

Trap, her mind whispered.

The woman talked to her in a sweet voice, hands opened, clearly trying to sooth her with words she couldn’t understand. But, as soon as the woman finished talking, the demon spoke to her in English.

“Hudrunn says you have nothing to fear. She is a healer, and only wants to tend to your injuries. If you were to put the axe down and go with her” Gwyn frowned, looking first at the man sprawled on the bed and the at the woman smiling at her. She had tended one of her hands to her, inviting her to take it. Gwyn was fairly suspicious about the whole thing. 

Truth is, her face hurt. Her ribs were on fire. Several days of constant beating had left her in a poor shape, and now that the adrenaline she had been running on was burnt, she was tired beyond measure. She just wanted to sit down, curl in a ball and sleep for a thousand years. Still, she couldn’t relax. They could attack her at any moment, and she had to be ready for them.

“She says she will be gentle; she will not harm you at all. You need medicine, and quickly. If you are wary of me, be not, I will not move from here, I promise. I will not even look” Ivar said, and Gwyn growled warningly. Then she looked at the woman, and then at the box. Her first impression was that she was there to help the men hurt her, but she had seen a box like that one with Beryl, the town’s healer. It was full of little bottles of ointments and smelled of herbs, just like she could smell the herbs from that side of the room. The pain won, in the end. 

Gwyn lowered the axe, but didn’t let go of it, and docile as a lamb, went with the healer, who prompted her to sit on the bed. She let herself drop, jostling the demon, and she watched carefully his reactions. He didn’t move at all but smiled. Gwyn frowned, then flinched, then moaned in pain when her swollen flesh protested. She closed her good eye when the women put her hands on her, light as the wings of a butterfly, and began her examination. She was talking out loud the whole time, and the demon dutifully translated.

“What a brute” said Ivar, his voice high pitched, clearly trying to mimic the healer. “Well, at least you nose is not broken. Oh, look at that Valkyrie, your nose will survive. Neither if the cheekbone. Another good omen! Clearly your bones are quite hard to break.” It was obvious that he was running commentary, because he talked in his normal voice when he intervened. 

“Now it’s time for you to strip, I have to check you for more injuries” Gwyn whined in protest and tried to cover herself with her arms, scooting backwards and away from the healer, until she touched one of the demon’s legs. She flinched, and he froze, smile giving way to a spluttering mess as he tried to translate, or protest, or just talk and found himself at a loss of words. Gwyn’s hand remained on his leg. They were thin, clearly useless, with no muscle for the lack of activity. Gwyn quickly took her hand away when she realised it has been an embarrassing long time that she had been practically groping him, fascinated by the thinness of the legs, and that they were not an impediment for the man they were attached to. He was even more terrifying than your average northman. 

“If you were to strip, Valkyrie, she would look you over. I think you should let her, you know? I mean, Hvitserk clearly had been working his anger issues with you, and Odin knows what he has done to your flesh. I won’t peek. At all. Here I am, poor cripple me, not moving and not looking”

Gwyn snorted. Poor cripple her ass. She had seen him in action. That got her a funny reaction. The demon rose to look at her, incredulous. Gwyn realised it was de first time she hadn’t outright growled or hissed at him. Arching the eyebrow over her good eyes, Gwyn crossed her arms and glared. He honest to god winced, and Gwyn wondered if he had been struck by lightning, got hit in the head too, or the lord appeared to him and changed his wicked ways. 

“Right, right, closed eyes. I would like to hear you laughing one day Valkyrie. I’m sure you have a pretty laugh” He laid back once again, but Gwyn wasn’t convinced at all. She looked at the axe in her hand and then the overdress she was wearing, and decided she had nothing to lose. She took the overdress off and made quick work of it, and then, to the surprise of the healer woman, she stalked her way across the bed towards Ivar. 

Ivar’s eyes jolted open when he felt the cold metal of the axe on his neck. The girl was looking at him, deadly serious, and was offering him a piece of cloth. She was missing the overall she had been wearing, and now he could see the simple dress that had been hidden beneath. No moving the axe a hair from his neck, she put the strip of cloth in his hand, and then tapped the flesh of her face under the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Ivar wanted to laugh. Clever little thing, demanding little slave. He chuckled and then took it, trying it tightly over his eyes.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asked, amused. It was mid-sentence that he felt her move, quick as lightning, dropping the axe, grabbing his wrists, and binding them together in front of him. He yelped in surprise before he laughed and told her in his language, and the sultriest voice he could muster “If you wanted to tie me in bed, Valkyrie, you only had to ask, no need for blades”

Gwyn was breathing hard, and every time she took air in it felt like her whole body was on fire. As soon as she had tied the demon, she had retreated so fast she almost fell from the bed if it wasn’t for the healer’s help. The woman spoke again, and, soon after, the demon translated.

“Take off your clothes Valkyrie, quickly, your breath is laboured, you clearly are in pain, which means that my idiot brother might have broken your ribs, and they need tending” Gwyn flinched. Broken ribs were a bad thing. She glanced a last time to the man laying in the bed, and then nodded at the healer. The old woman helped her take off her dress and the simple shift she wore underneath. The healer gasped. Gwyn wasn’t able to see herself, but she was covered in bruises that went from green to deep purple to blue. Her neck was swollen, and one could clearly make the shape of the brute’s hands around it. Her lips had split in two different places, and one of her teeth was loose. She had cut the inside of her cheeks and her tongue, and the healer had her gargling with some tonic she mixed in the spot. It tasted awful, and Gwyn had to be persuaded to take it a second time.

One of her knuckles was broken and had to be splintered. Her ribs were bruised, and five of them were clearly cracked. The healer wrapped a bandaged tightly around her chest and middle, making her gasp. The eye was swollen shut, and the healer had to look at both her eyes to make sure the blows to the head didn’t cause permanent damage. That meant she was given an ointment, had a plaster put on the purpled skin and was asked to lie down in bed as it took effect. The old woman helped her into a brand-new shift, and then back to the bed. Gwyn was really surprised when the demon only moved himself to the edge of the bed and gave her enough space, so she didn’t have to touch him. 

“She is going to come back in a few hours to see to your other wounds. Sleep now, Valkyrie, all will be well” Gwyn had the urgent need of asking him if how she was supposed to sleep with him in the same bed, but, as soon as her head touched the soft, soft pillow, she was gone, swallowed by the darkness and the exhaustion. 

Ivar listened to her breathing becoming steady and rhythmic, the signal that she had fallen sleep at last. He was still tied, still blindfolded, but he didn’t care, nor did he try to free himself. He just curled up in the direction of the sound, careful not to touch her, and laid there, listening. He didn’t even notice when he fell asleep. 

When the healer entered the room, followed by two servants bearing food and drink and some clothes, they found then curled towards one another, sleeping peacefully. None of them commented on the state of their prince, nor would they dare to talk out loud about what they had witnessed, but they would remember the sight of the leader of the great heathen army bound and blinded in a bed. 

They both awoke with a roar, Ivar cussing up a storm, shouting threats and demanding to know if they had brought everything he had asked. He shouted for the old crone to get on with it. For Gwyn, it was very different. She had been sleeping soundly, but those last weeks had turned her into a light sleeper, and she awoke hissing, barely seeing from one eye, hurting all over, and with the demon close to her. She took the axe she had hid under the pillow, jumped out of bed and glued her back to the wall, pointing the blade towards the strangers. She was still breathing heavily when the voice of the demon broke though the haze.

“Calm down Valkyrie, they are here to serve you, not to harm you. Healer! Come! Is her eye better? Will you examine her head now?” He kept switching back and forth from English to his own language, and it made Gwyn’s head hurt to try and understand him. The old woman came back, smiling, and Gwyn blinked in surprise when she discovered she could see again through her eye. 

She allowed the woman to check her wounds, until her growling stomach made the old crone start to laugh. Gwyn frowned. She hadn’t eaten in three days, of course she was hungry. The healer smiled fondly and had her sit at the table, full of food. She gestured and Gwyn soon filled her plate and dug in. It was delicious. Or maybe she was just ravenous. She was enjoying her meal until she heard his voice again. He hadn’t moved from the bed, but the woman had filled a plate for him and he was eating, even with the blindfold on. Gwyn wondered if he wasn’t scared they would try to poison him. 

The demon behaved, surprisingly enough, he seemed delighted when the healer proclaimed, she would be fine after a long time of rest. He even clapped. They had brought new clothes for her, but this time, they were the leather trousers and leather vest their warrior women wore. Underneath there were soft clothes made of wool to keep her warm. She frowned. Believing her to be simply confused, the old healer insisted in helping her into them, after helping her take a bath with the aid of other two thralls, Christians of York like her, that looked at her with a mix of disgust, pity and confusion. Gwyn hung her head, suddenly ashamed. They must be thinking she was the demon’s whore. The women left the room and her heart raced when she realised the rustling of clothes was the demon freeing himself from his restrains. She jumped and tried to put the table between both of them. The demon was smiling, but held his hands in the air, trying to appease her. Gwyn mentally cursed. She had lost her axe during the whole make over operation. Cunning old woman. She was sure it had been the old healer. 

Ivar wanted nothing more than to stare. But he had promised, and she needed a little bit of privacy, so he had waited, patiently, blindfolded and tied up. He didn’t even peek. Not when they brought them food and drink, not when he heard the servants bathing her, not even when the rustle of fabric told him she was getting dressed. It was only when he heard the old woman telling her sweetly of combing her hair that he stirred at last. 

If someone was going to braid her hair, it would be him. Ivar ordered them all out, and took the blindfold off, ripping the fabric and getting ridden of his bindings in no time. Still smiling, he dragged himself towards the set of combs and hair ties they had left on the bed and gestured at his side.

“Come my Valkyrie, come sit by me. I will braid your hair” But she didn’t move at all. She was waiting for some kind of trap. Ah, Ivar thought, he had miscalculated, she had become a hunted beast, and now she would refuse a kind touch, fearing it would be hiding a stick. He reached for the axe he had left behind. His axe. Her axe. Sigurd’s axe. Ivar could swear that sometimes he could see specks of blood still clinging to it. He handed it to her.

She took it from his hands with a sour face and even sourer glare and sat down with a force that jolted the bed and had Ivar snickering. It would be very interesting to pitch her against his brother Bjorn one day. Or maybe Ubbe. They were the strongest men he knew, but she was such a force of nature, she would surprise them both for sure. He signalled her to turn around, and her grip on the axe just tightened. 

“I will braid your hair, nothing more. I promise” suddenly, her face was so close he could feel her breath on his lips. Ivar felt himself blush. He wanted to curse, to sneer, but he was paralysed by her stare. Her eyes were the only thing he could focus on. Their beautiful colour. The fire on them. His breath caught in his throat and he shivered. She was either going to kiss him or going to stab him, and to be honest, Ivar wouldn’t mind at all. 

Gwyn stared into his eyes, trying to see if she could glimpse his plans in their depths. They were an out worldly blue, so similar to his brother’s. Ubbe’s eyes were quite fetching too. For some reason, she remembered when Ubbe had caught her staring and had told her how he had his father’s eyes. Ragnar Lothbrook’s eyes. They were big as saucers. Suddenly it didn’t feel like she was dealing with a dangerous killer at all. Something in her mind clicked, and Gwyn stopped thinking of him as the demon covered in blood she had first met in the church. Before her was a very nervous and awkward man child with a million issues that played to be the great warrior but had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Once she had stopped thinking of him as the demon, she just put the axe at his neck, caressing his throat with the blade as he gulped, and then, in the blink of an eye, she had turned around, offering the great tangled mane to the Viking. He started to work with the fervour and reverence of a monk in prayer.

Gwyn couldn’t feel at all the swift hands sorting tangles, smoothing scented oils in her hair and creating intricated braid patterns across her scalp, tying the ends of the braids with little beads of silver that shone like stars. Ivar’s hands flew, delicate as if he was caressing a butterfly’s wing, minding his strength as to not harm her in any way. He had ordered only the finest hair ornaments they could find, but he chose the simplest set of them to begin with. He could give her the rest in time. He cherished the lingering smell of her hair and the soap she had used. The warmth of her skin, and how silky smooth it felt when he brushed it by accident. He was enjoying this. Really truly enjoying this. He was elated. And he was afraid. 

Gwyn couldn’t understand the change that had come over her in the few seconds she had gazed in his eyes. She couldn’t call him the demon any longer. She believed his name was Ivar? He had blushed! All the way to the roots of his hair! He, who had killed and tortured without flinching. Had he ever been close to a woman before? Gwyn would bet he hadn’t. She felt kind of smug. She had kissed two different boys already! She felt the urgent need to giggle. Maybe the brute wasn’t a brute at all, but only a big child. Now that she was warm, fed, and her wounds hurt less, she realised that the brute, the one they called Hvitserk, was very much like a child throwing a tantrum. She smiled. Silly children. 

She studied her clothes carefully, caressing the soft deerskin of her breeches and the leather on her vest. She looked like a man! Or like one of their warrior women… Maybe that was a good thing? All the thralls had been dressed in Saxon dresses. And…Ivar? Ivar was braiding her hair, and he was taking enough time with it that it seemed to be one of their complex hairstyles. Now there would be no skirts to tangle in her legs when she tried to run. He hadn’t taken the axe from her, he had even allowed her to use it against him. If she was allowed to keep it, maybe she could sneak out of the room she slept in…

Gwyn remembered exactly where she had been sleeping. In the brother’s room. Right by Hvitserk’s bed, in the cold stony floor. She shuddered. Nevermind. Maybe they would not return her to that room. It would be easy to get to the cells were the thralls were kept if she was armed, even easier if she looked like one of their warrior-women. She could look for her sister there… and then they could make a run for it. Maybe they would think she was going to use the thrall for the night, like she had seen it before, warrior coming and picking the girls they wanted before disappearing with them into the shadows. If they threw her again at the foot of the brute’s bed… well. She was armed now. And he shared room with Ubbe, and Ubbe was kind, and calm, and had protected her before from the other’s rage. 

Gwyn smiled, even with her broken and battered ribs and the bruises that covered her body, she had now a plan, and she had hope when a few hours before she had been certain her death was close by. The fire in her roared. She would find her sister, and they would escape.


	7. Infatuation

Ivar was filled with uncontainable pride. 

She was magnificent. He couldn’t have asked for a better match. 

He had launched himself off the bed as soon as he finished braiding her hair, babbling about dinner and how she would seat by his side at the feast. He didn’t give any thought to her docile disposition until they entered the hall and sat down, a possessive hand on her knee as she sat by his side. Then he got suspicious. She was quiet. Far too quiet. Not a growl, not a snarl, not a single sign of defiance. He frowned. Squeezing her knee, he leaned towards her.

“What are you planning, Valkyrie? It is not like you to be this quiet. Or this docile. Tell me, what are you plotting? Hmm?” If looks could kill they would all be dead. She frowned, seemed to think about it for a second, and then bared her teeth and hissed. Then she shrugged and went back to eye the doors. 

Gwyn was seated at the great table. She couldn’t believe it. The brothers never began a feast until all of them were present, and she nervously looked at the doors, waiting for the other two to appear. After them would come the food, and with the food, the thralls. She had been either too busy serving the brothers and dodging the brute’s blows to properly search for her, but she had never stopped. She was convinced that she had seen before that red dress her sister was wearing the last time she had saw her. It was a vague memory, but she couldn’t remember where. She felt him squeezing her knee and decided to please him. She hissed and hoped he wouldn’t bother her in a while. That was the moment when both Ubbe, tall frame seeming to fill the room, and Hvitserk soon followed. His face was badly scratched, he stopped for a moment, gawking at her. Ubbe also stopped, but for a different reason. He stared at her, mouth hanging open. She felt herself blush and conscious of the terrible estate of her face, adjusted one of the braids that hung behind her ear. 

He advanced in great strides, Hvitserk following after, head hung and subdued. Ivar was smiling, smug. 

“Have you seen my Valkyrie brother? Have you seen how brave she is? I have set my mind to it, I will turn her into a great shieldmaiden, she has the iron for it” Ubbe grimaced at his brother’s words, and bypassed him to kneel at Gwyn’s side. She felt herself blush and tried to put some distance between them, but Ubbe’s big hands came as a bear trap on her face, gently locking her in place as he took a good look at her face. She got goose bumps when he circled her cheeks with his thumbs. Those blue eyes were very bright, almost impossibly blue, and were fixed on her. She swallowed, nervous. 

“You don’t say anything, brother? You agree then, that she will make a great warrior?” Ivar couldn’t resist needling Hvitserk. Especially if he could get Ubbe to lash out on him. He deserved it, for hurting his Valkyrie. Ivar smiled viciously when he delivered the final blow, magnanimously reigning his jealously in, ignoring the way Ubbe was touching his woman, and how she was allowing it. Of course, she was allowing it. Ubbe was whole. He had also been gentle with her and hadn’t gone killing priests and being all terrifying around, but Ivar didn’t do very well with his own flaws. 

“After all” Ivar said with a twisted, twisted smile “She thoroughly kicked your ass when you tried to kill her” the effect was instantaneous. Hvitserk tried to make himself as small as he could, while Ubbe went rigid, took a final look at the girl’s face and then jumped to his feet, turned around, and cuffed Hvitserk so hard it echoed in the room and the other man was almost flung towards the table. Gwyn flinched. 

“WHAT DID YOU DO??!” he roared at his brother, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and jostling him around like a misbehaving puppy. Ivar clapped, amused. Gwyn stood up, throwing her chair back, and stalked towards them, but a hand on her wrist stopped her. 

“Valkyrie, no. He deserves this” hissed Ivar. Gwyn took a look at him, and then at the two brothers. Ubbe was practically frothing at the mouth, hissing at his brother.

“You fucked up, Do you know that? YOU FUCKED UP” Hvitserk hung his head

“you don’t understand Ubbe, she insulted me!!” whined the other man, trying to free himself. Ivar thought it was the perfect moment to chime in, as loudly as he could.

“She shoved shit at him, caught him square in the face, you should have see it Ubbe, we have always said that Hvitserk was a shit eater, but this just confirmed it” Hvitserk made an attempt at flinging himself at Ivar with a roar of rage, but Ubbe intercepted him with his chest. The warrior almost bounced off the solid wall of flesh that was Ubbe’s chest, and Gwyn snorted, amused. Ivar turned to look at her and rubbed little circles in her wrist with his fingers. Part possessive, part to check she was real. 

“And now you have delivered straight into Ivar’s hands, who has fed her, healed her wounds and given her clothes. I have told you this before, cruelty wouldn’t make us win, and here it is” he whispered into his brother’s ear. He had him by the throat and Hvitserk was standing on his tip toes, face slowly turng purple. “we had double the chances, and now she won’t speak to us” 

Ubbe threw his brother to the ground and kicked him once before turning back to Gwyn. She stiffened, and only Ivar’s hand kept her in place. She was ready to bolt, and her free hand went to rest on the axe she had strapped at her waist. But the older Viking only patted her head gently and bent down until they were seeing eye to eye.

“I’m sorry” he said. Gwyn blushed again. A tug on her arm had her sitting back on her chair, and Ivar’s furious voice interrupted.

“She’s mine now brother. For the next eight days, and for the rest of her life, she is mine” Ivar was angry, and scared. Ubbe had made her blush, and she didn’t seem angry. 

Ubbe was a prince, a good warrior and could walk. Ubbe had had many women and was skilled in bed. But Ivar wanted her desperately and could not afford any kind of competition. He was sure he would be able to charm her, if only he was alone with her enough time. If he had enough time to show her he was better than his brothers, legs or no legs. His brain was going overdrive trying his best to make plans. He needed plans, and backups plans, and backup plans for the backup plans. She will see he was the best. He was a prince, he was a great warrior, he was the best leader of this army. When they had conquered this land, he would avenge his mother and then she could be his queen…

He would give her a crown, power, riches and everything she wanted if she stayed by his side. If she loved him. It was an intense new feeling, and Ivar, first time feeling something like this and with no one to turn to for counsel, was slowly spiralling into a pit of self-loathing, poor self-esteem, and a life of being the poor, undesirable, cripple monster with his four big, shinning handsome brothers. 

Gwyn’s life was very different from that moment on. Ivar had her sleeping in his bed, though they slept one in each corner, Gwyn fully clothed with her axe under her pillow, and though the bed was comfortable and soft, she was tense and spent several sleepless nights watching Ivar sleep, until his face relaxed, making him look young, and he started snoring softly. It was only then when Gwyn would sleep, only to find that, even with his useless legs, he had managed to plaster himself against her in the morning, very much like an octopus. 

She wasn’t given more dresses. All she had to wear were breeches, and shirts, and leather. Ivar didn’t assign her any tasks, telling her that she was supposed to rest and give her wounds time to heal. She was suspicious, there was no way that was how they treated wounded slaves. 

Every afternoon Ivar would take her to the training yard, to watch the warriors at their craft. There he talked nonstop about weapons, fighting styles, and kept asking her questions. Sword or axe? He was positive she was fonder of the axe already. The shield was mandatory. She would have to fight in the shield wall. Archery was a must, but that wouldn’t be for felling enemies, but to hunt food on the road. Ivar sure liked the sound of his own voice. And all the while, he would be touching her. It was like Ivar needed to reassure himself that she was there for real. At first, Gwyn had pinched viciously his hands of his legs, snarling, and growling. But he hadn’t meant any harm. He like to rest his hand on her shoulder, or her knee, gently massaging the inner skin of her wrist was one of his favourites. In the end Gwyn admitted, defeated, that it was for the best that she let him act like that, if only because all the hitting him and moving out of his reach ended in her injuries flaring bright pain, and Ivar mopping dejected for the rest of the day. 

And then the language lessons started.

A Happy Ivar was a busy Ivar, and Ivar had been very happy with Gwyn constantly by his side. He had a mountain of ideas every day about how to strengthen their defences, how to guide the campaign, where to strike and how. He joked with his men and smiled at his brothers. He worked on the forge and hummed as he crawled around York. In his brothers’s opinion, it was quite frightening. They hadn’t seen him in such a bright mood without anyone been killed or tortured in the vicinity in years. 

A happy Ivar was a talkative Ivar. Very talkative. And considering he had three days left to make the girl talk, he decided it was time to teach her their language. He took her around the city, pointing at things and repeating their names in both English and norse, again and again and again, asking for her to repeat. She never did. However, he managed to get her to scribble runes here and there, for Gwyn had never even came close to learn to read and write, and the thought of being able to leave a trace fascinated her. She secretly was delighted about it, and scribbled the new runes she would learn in the mud, of the dust, or wherever she had the chance to do so, to Ivar’s amusement. 

He was getting more and more frustrated, especially because none of the three sons of Ragnar had thought about what to do if she didn’t speak to any of them. 

Gwyn, ignorant of the bet, continued with her silent treatment. She had realised three things at the very same time. Number one, everyone was under the assumption that she was Ivar’s mistress. This gave her a higher status amongst the heathens and granted her a certain degree of power, because they were all afraid, she would tattle. Number two, being seen as the mistress of the monster that destroyed their lives meant the other women looked at her with disgust, pity and hatred, which was a pretty bad thing when one was trying to formulate an escape plan. Number three, she hadn’t seen her sister yet, but she had seen one of her cousins. Eldrida was in the courtyard almost every morning, and didn’t seem to be hurt, except for the purple fingerprints here and there and the haunted expression of her eyes. 

It was the vision of Eldrida one morning when Ivar had been called by some of his guards and was talking to them about deer, rabbit, and land (the only words she had managed to catch) and wasn’t paying attention to her, that set Gwyn into motion. She took one look at Ivar, and carefully walked away, glancing back every few paces, her hand in the comfort coolness of her axe. Eldrida dropped the tray of refreshments she had been holding when Gwyn tapped her on her shoulder, whimpering and hanging her head low. She immediately started to apologize both in English and norse. Something dark, wild and terrible stirred within Gwyn the thought that her proud cousin’s first words in the heathen tongue were ‘sorry’. 

She grabbed her by the shoulders and Eldrida started to shiver, whimpering softly. Gwyn shook her gently and took a deep breath.


	8. Hope

Eldrida’s cry of joy nearly scared her to death. Then she was enveloped in a crushing hug that had her wincing and clutching her ribs. She couldn’t breath. Her cousin was a good head taller than her, and she was asphyxiating her against her chest. Gwyn patted Eldrida’s back, trying to comfort her.

“Gwyn!! Oh merciful lord, it’s you!!” Eldrida was crying, big fat tears running down her cheeks. Gwyn tried to talk, but her voice wouldn’t come out. Only a terrible cough that had her bent over, clutching her chest. Oh her broken ribs. How did they hurt. 

“Here, sit, sit, don’t force yourself” Eldrida sat her in one of the benches and produced a cup of mead from god knows where. Gwyn drank, and tried to breath again. The pain was there and was quite strong. She had overdone her bruised ribs. She tried to talk again and felt that something wasn’t right. She began to fret as she realised that her voluntary silence might not be as much her choice as it was her bodies incapability to do so. Eldrida sat by her side and brushed out of the way one of the multiple braids she sported today. Ivar had woken her up that morning, as all the mornings since they had been together, eager to braid her hair and stuff it full of baubles he had half pilfered from the people of Wessex and Mercia, half forged himself. He had seemed pretty proud of his work that day, and Gwyn secretly agreed with him. He had carefully braided and rolled the hair until she had a bunch of hair roses in the side of her head.

“you dress like them” stated Eldrida in wonder, before she could look properly at her. “Good Lord, cousin, what happened to you?” a bitter laugh “ah, I guess the same that happened to all of us. But we must be strong, for each other… Soon our new king would deliver us from this evil. If we pray, the lord will have us survive this test he has send our way”

Gwyn huffed. She had little hope their people could defeat the Vikings. As for god… thus far, he had seemed to be protecting her, but it pained her heart to see her friends and her family suffering like this. Eldrida’s voice cut her line of thought.

“which one is yours?” she asked, scouting the area “Mine are those two over there, they are brothers” she pointed at two men fiercely battling each other using hammers bigger than Gwyn herself. Gwyn sighed, and pointed at Ivar, who still hadn’t noticed she had left. She felt her cousin freezing in the spot. Her arms were warm around her shoulders.

“My poor, poor little Gwyn” she muttered against her hair, and then, soft as a butterfly’s wings, a tender kiss “be strong, be faithful, and pray to god. He will keep us from harm” Eldrida, with her ten years of seniority over Gwyn, reminded her of her mother, and Gwyn began crying ugly fat tears in a terrible silence, as she tried to reign them in. She sniffed, and, giving up on speaking, she started to mimic rocking a baby, then signalled to her fingers, and the to Eldrida. Her cousin wilted even more, and paled. 

“Wulfgard is dead. Killed at the church, and Eldergard…. They… at the church… in the holy ground they… he slipped from my arms when they… and his little head…” Realising she had just fucked up big time, Gwyn flinched and hugged her cousin tightly. But Eldrida seemed to have used these weeks to grieve and was far more practical than her. Soon she had dried her tears and was trying to compose herself. Gwyn wanted to comfort her, but short of walking to those giants and kill them, she didn’t know what to do. 

“I am sorry about your parents, Gwyn, really. It was a very noble sacrifice, what they did to protect you… though sometimes, sometimes I am weak, and my faith falters, and I think it would have been better if we had all been killed in that church. The things my sisters have told me… they are far away, in the other end of the town. They keep the one that don’t have a specific owner, I think. It is… it is like they were paying for all their sins in full in there, like hell” Eldrida said. It was like a dam had broken inside of her and she could not stop talking. 

“They are all dead, the men. Our fathers, my husband, my brothers… But, Gwyn, Eldrich wasn’t in York. He will do his best to go to you, you know. He will come to get you. He thought of you and your safety the whole time. He wanted nothing more than to take you away. I’m sure he will ride with the king when they crush these pagans, and all shall be well again” She flinched at the mention of Eldrich, but she had no time to think about the man, because now Eldrida was talking about her sister. Her sister! Gwyn gasped, and frantically signalling, took one of her braids and twirled it in her hand, just like her sister did when she was thinking about something. It was a gesture typical of her, and that all the family knew. Eldrida, blessed be her heart, nodded, understanding.

“I saw her the other day. She is lucky, I think, she is with a family. A pair of brothers, the wife of one of them and the father, from what I saw. Of course, she is bruised, and… and has been… well you know. Like all of us, I guess. But I have high hopes that a having a married woman on the household would… deter their most savage urges and tame their heathen nature. If god is merciful.” Where? Gwyn wanted to ask. Where is she? Eldrida had to tell her. Ivar seemed to like her, for whatever reason. She already knew Ubbe was kind. She would take her sister to one of them, and maybe they would keep her safe. After all, what was the worst they could do to them? Beat them? Torture them? Kill their loved ones? It was her only chance… Unless she managed to come up with a plan to escape. None of them noticed the shadow spying on their conversation since they had seen them embrace, and none of the girls notice that shadow slinking away without a sound. 

“She generally goes to the great hall after dinner with the men that have her. They like to have her close when they start drinking…” her cousin shuddered and a tear escaped her eye “it is the same with the men that hold me prisoner” she nervously looked at Ivar, who was already dismissing the men he had been talking to and looking around. When Gwyn saw him looking around, she imagined he was looking for her. She gestured at him, then at herself, then at Eldrida, then shrugged in question. She tapped her cheek right under her eye twice.

“I have seen him there a couple of times. His brothers too. I don’t know if they would take you with them, they haven’t so far have they? Even if they want to, don’t do it Gwyn. Please. It is bad enough without you poking your nose in and… I cannot protect Aoife, I can’t protect my sisters, at least, let me have the illusion that you are well” Gwyn frowned. Staring at her feet. Ivar had started to shout her name, and she didn’t want him to get interested in Eldrida. Or worse, in Aoife. 

At least not yet. The cousins hugged tightly and then separated. Eldrida back to fetch food for her masters, and Gwyn back to the cripple impatient puppy that smiled brightly at her sight and promptly launched into an endless stream of words in norse, repeated in English, while somehow, crawling and madly pointing at the things he named at the same time. She wouldn’t admit it, but she had begun to understand more and more of their tongue ever since Ivar began to teach her. The rest of the day passed in a haze. That night, even if she had sat stubbornly at her chair, trying to stay, Ivar had said he was tired, and had one of his men carry her to their rooms so she could assume the position far far away from him at the other side of her bed so he could go to sleep too. 

One thing that irked her is that everyone else seemed to have been forced. But Ivar, who had first claimed as thrall, had made no move to force her yet. Nor Ubbe or Hvitserk. She didn’t know if it was because they were married, or because something else. Another thing that irked her is, that those northmen tended to be shirtless as often as possible. Even Ubbe, who had been mindful of the sensible ways of Christians, had slept only covered with trousers, but the rest of them took off their clothes for sleeping. She didn’t even know how Ivar’s hands looked like, always half covered by those strange gloves he always wore. Sleep claimed her late that night, and Ivar left her in bed until the sun was high in the sky, waking her up only so she could join him for supper and to give her an improvised language lesson on food. That night, Ivar didn’t take her to the great hall. Nor the next, or the next. He always sent food up to their room. She had been afraid she had done something wrong to be banned from dinner, but she couldn’t think of what, taking in count she had broken pitchers of mead in the head of some men and they had only laughed and tried to pinch her ass again. 

Ivar was furious, and incredibly proud. She hadn’t talked. Not even a word. Not even with the other thrall he had allowed her to share time with. He wasn’t paying attention to her anyway, she should be able to have some fun of her own, right? But she hadn’t spoken at all. Not to him, not to his brothers, no matter how much Ubbe tried to gently bring her out of her shell with gentle words and noble gestures, serving her food and drink like he wasn’t a prince. Hvitserk had only snarled at her, getting another snarl in response that had him flinching. He had spent the rest of that evening touching his eyelids from time to time. His face when Ivar had told him that he had ordered them apart because he had seen her going for his eyes had been priceless. His brother hadn’t been conscious of how close he came to lose both eyes, and Ivar took a lot of pleasure in telling him. 

But then came the night that marked the end of their little bet, and they had a problem. Ivar had left her in their rooms (and didn’t it sound good, calling them not his, but theirs. It made Ivar quite proud and always put a smile on his face, to think he had such woman sharing his bed). He knew she had begun to understand their language, and he wouldn’t take the risk that she would learn about the bet and then get mad at him. Things, as always when it came to the sons of Ragnar and dealing with defeat, didn’t go smoothly at all. They had been silent the first night, then tried to talk but only managed to insult each other the second, and the third, they had started arguing during the feast, and continued all the way to Ubbe and Hvitserk’s rooms.

“I win” Ivar said stubborn, perched upon Ubbe’s bed and kind of drunk “You couldn’t make her speak” 

“We win” Ubbe retorted “you couldn’t make her speak either”

“I know” said Ivar with a fond smile “She is magnificent, isn’t she?”

“Careful Ivar” Ubbe said “Or we will think you are in love” Ivar opened his mouth to throw some barb at his brother or another, when Hvitserk finally spoke. Most of the wounds in his face and neck, like his Valkyrie’s ribs were already on the mend, but some were clearly going to scar. He had already recovered from his little scuffle with the thrall. 

“Her name is Gwyn. She has someone looking for her named Eldrich. She has several cousins that also are thralls” Hvitserk smiled for the first time in days, and looked at Ubbe, triumphant. He had redeemed himself, hadn’t he? “You wanted us to get her name, there you have it. We win”

Ivar gaped. Then frowned. Then felt the rage bubbling in his chest until it turned into a fire that consumed him. Hvitserk? Of all people, she had talked to Hvitserk? Why? What had he done? What had he said? She would never talk to him. No. Not to him. He must have used a trick. But what trick? His head started to think a mile a second looking for an explanation. Thankfully, before Ivar gave in into the impulse of dragging himself at Hvitserk and beating an answer out of him, Ubbe asked. Hvitsek might have claimed to have gotten the information out of Gwyn herself, but he made a mistake. He didn’t warn Ubbe, and the man was curious, and a little bit hurt, about how he had gotten the girl to talk, when he had not been able to.

“How did you get her to tell you?” Ubbe asked, astonished. So her name was Gwyn? It sounded sweet. It suited her lovely face. Gwyn of the Saxons, Gwyn of York. 

“Yes brother, tell us, we want to know” Ivar added, in a vicious cold tone that promised a world of pain if he had done anything at all to his Valkyrie. Gwyn. What a common name for such an extraordinary, brave creature. Once Ivar had her stablished back in Kattegat, once she turned to the true gods, He will give her a true name, a Viking name, one worthy of her. Maybe, if the gods returned Floki to them, he could preside over the naming ceremony. Maybe even over another kind of ceremony… a marriage perhaps…But Ivar didn’t dare to dream that far. After all, she still hated him, though she seemed to tolerate his presence more and more with each passing day. 

“Does it even matter?” Hvitserk said, not wanting to tell them he had happened upon her by chance and decided to eavesdrop.

“Yes”

“Yes!”

“There was a thrall in the training grounds, she called her Gwyn, and they hugged. The thrall called her cousin. She mentioned the name Eldrich. The woman spoke of her sisters” He confessed and waited. Ubbe’s eyes went big in surprise, realising Ivar would use that against them, and Ivar smirked like the cat that got the cream. 

“Then she didn’t speak” Ivar said

“I still know her name, What do you know about her?” Hvitserk said, frowning “Anyway, you should watch out brother, or this Eldrich that rides with the King’s men would come for her and steal her away”

“King’s men?” Ubbe asked, frowning at the implications. Their scouts had seen some movement, and they had been anticipating some kind of attack, but this information was new.

“Take her away?” Ivar asked. He already had a plan for the Saxons, and had no need to worry about them, not at all, but the mere insinuation that someone would take his Valkyrie from him made him see red “Who is he, anyway?” Hvitserk shrugged, unfaced.

“Her brother? Another cousin? Her husband? She is old enough to have been married for a few years at the very least, she might be Ivar’s or Sigurd’s age” hearing his brother’s name made something inside Ivar’s chest hurt, but, as always since that horrible nightmarish day, he ignored it. Ubbe had a point. Did she have a husband? If he came to York with the rest of the Saxons, she wouldn’t have one for much longer. Ivar frowned and reached for the mead.

Would she hate him, like she hated him for killing the priest, after her husband died? It wasn’t her husband. The healer had told him she was still a maiden after he had asked if Hvitserk had hurt her in any way at all. The healer had told him she hadn’t had children of her own. It wasn’t a husband. Maybe a brother? Or a cousin? Ivar didn’t want her to hate him, but he couldn’t do a single thing to save him, if that was the case. He didn’t know who he was, or what he looked like, couldn’t spare his life in the middle of a battle. Maybe his god would protect him. Maybe their gods would kill him. Who knew? He reached for more mead. They still had to settle the dispute about the bet.

“So, no one won. Now what?”

“Now nothing” said Ubbe, tired of Ivar’s games.

“We could have another go” Hvitserk said, subdued, but still wanting to try. At least it would keep him entertained. 

“No” both Ubbe and Ivar said. Both uncomfortable about betting about Gwyn again, both a little bit afraid of what the savage girl would do if she ever knew about the bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please!!! spare a minute and leave a comment!
> 
> I really want to know how are you liking the story up to this point!!! All opinions are welcome I promise!!
> 
> XOXOXOXOXOX
> 
> Luna


	9. Reunion

They argued about what to do now until late in the night, agreeing in the end to do nothing at all, since none of them liked the other’s ideas. Ivar had to call one of his guards to carry him because he had drunk way to much mead to reach his rooms on his own. He even had the man leave him in the bed, carefully, very carefully. It was the first time he had seen his val… Gwyn asleep, and he didn’t want to startle her. 

She was always awake before him, or he was busy and had to hurry out of the room. She always fell asleep after he did. She was… frowning in her sleep. It was a funny expression, half a pout, half anger, and she was curled on herself, the hair, free of any braid and neatly combed spread around her as a cloud. One of her arms was extended, reaching towards the space where he normally slept. Ivar felt the warmth in his chest expand. Or maybe it was the mead. He felt hot. He took off his gloves, careful not to make a sound. Then his vest and his shirt. He was still hot. 

With impatience he tugged at his legs until he was freed from his boots. He halted at the trousers, looking at his legs, knowing what lied underneath. Then he looked at Gwyn, asleep in the bed. His upper body was as muscled as any other Viking, but his legs… He still remembered Margrete’s face at the sight of his legs. He left the trousers on. 

He dragged himself across the bed until she could feel her breath in his skin, and careful not to wake her up, he gathered her in his arms and arranged his body, so he was cradling her. Her weight and warmth were a comfort, and he inhaled deeply the sweet aroma of her hair. The searing fire that seemed to be consuming him erupted from his chest and ran through his veins, and he felt himself getting hard. 

Astonished, he froze, trying not to move, and not knowing what to do. She was right there, and her lips seemed so soft, her skin too… She smelled good. He tightened his grip on her body, until there wasn’t space for a hair between them. His hips moved on their own, darting forward until they were plastered against her thigh. His breathing was laboured and came out in heavy pants. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, but her eyes did not open, nor her breathing changed. She wasn’t awake. She wasn’t… If she was to wake up now, she would take her axe, cut off his prick and probably make him eat it. And yet, Ivar wanted nothing more than to see her waking and welcoming him with a smile and open arms. 

She was a thrall.

She was his thrall.

By the gods he was hard. He hadn’t been able to get hard with Margrete. 

With a sight, Ivar wrenched himself off her side and rolled into a ball at the other side of the bed, as far as he could get without having to leave the bed. She would surely wake up if he left. Only two days ago she had started sleeping so soundly that Ivar had seen the dark circles under her eyes disappear and he hadn’t been awoken by an axe at his throat at night just because he had woken her up by moving or snoring. 

He was hard.

And she was right there.

And Ivar wasn’t going to touch her. He will have her come to him on her own free will. And it won’t be like this. For all the pleasure the men seemed to get for thralls, he had seen the Christian women. They had hated it, and no amount of good looks or bed skills shown by the warriors made them enjoy it. 

But his body had needs and Ivar did not want to ignore his erection, not knowing when he would have another. He closed his eyes and imagined how could it be. Gwyn welcoming him with a smile, Gwyn touching him… he allowed his hands to roam through his body, caressing, a poor imitation of what he really wanted. His hips were moving rhythmically on their own and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning. 

The breeches were constraining his erection and hurting him. With a quick look at her, reassuring himself that she wasn’t awake, he freed his member and took it in his hand, working it with long strokes as he tried hard not to whimper. 

His breathing was laboured, like he had just run from a bear. He was so nervous his mouth went dry. He was at a loss about what to do now. He carefully explored his chest, playing with his nipples, surprised to find them so sensitive, enjoying the jolt of electricity that went from them to his crotch. 

He teased himself for what it would seem to be hours, caressing his skin until he had goosebumps, playing with his balls, hand slick with his own precum. In the end, he was scared that the wild rhythm of his hips as he fucked his hand roughly would jostle the woman awake, but the pleasure built until he spilled with a silent cry of extasy and stopped caring for anything that wasn’t the pleasure. He took one look at the white fluid in his hands, and then he looked back at the girl peacefully sleeping at the other side of the bed. 

Where could he clean his hands? The shame of what he had done so close to Gwyn made him blush fiercely. In the end, he retrieved his shirt from the head of the bed, cleaned his hand on the fabric, and tossed it to the ground for the thralls to clean up. With a satisfied sigh, he turned around, went back to plaster himself to Gwyn’s side and fell asleep in minutes. 

In the morning, he awoke early, and carefully navigated the room, clothing himself again and leaving before she could wake. Ivar didn’t feel like he could look at her in the eye without blushing. But soon there were other things to focus on. The Saxons were coming, the scouts said, making camp not very far away. Ivar had been waiting for them… and now it was time to prepare the trap. He tried very hard not to look at her the rest of the day, and when he could not bear it anymore, he sent her away with the others to prepare for the attack.

Gwyn woke up that morning in a daze. Last night she had woke up at the feeling of being engulfed by a warm embrace, and she had tried her best not to show she was conscious. She had smelled Ivar all around her and felt his naked skin against her. She had laid there, waiting, already planning the best way to get out of his embrace, out of the bed and to the set of knives the man had left on the table the other day after polishing them. Gwyn had felt his hard member pressing against her thigh as his arms tightened around her. It wasn’t and unpleasant sensation, that one. It left a tingling all over her skin. Her nipples were hardening, and she strove to keep her breathing even. So this was how it all ended, just like all the other thralls, it just had taken more time. 

And then nothing. He had rolled over, taken himself in hand, and left her alone. 

And Gwyn had to sat through it all, faking sleep as the Viking man took his time satisfying himself.

Gwyn was ashamed of admitting that she had listened to the soft gasps and quietened moans. That she had opened her eyes enough to try and make out the shape of his body with the help of the full moon’s light. She could only see shadows, but he was facing the opposite side, hands busy, legs covered, and back in full display. There were lines on his back, like a painting. Gwyn could make them out. They looked intriguing. He had moved again, and she had closed her eyes as hard as she could. And there she stood, waiting. She laid awake for hours after he finished and went to sleep. Silently grateful that whatever had always kept men away from her worked on heathens too and trying to ignore the wetness between her legs. 

Morning had come to find York busy as a hive. For the next week, Vikings and Saxons alike, the last ones supervised by their masters, prepared the city for attack. Soon, Prince Ivar had said. In two days, to the very least. Gwyn had been put to work too, first carrying food and drink and sitting by Ivar side on the meetings, slowly palling as she grasped what they wanted to do to her compatriots once they breached the city walls by their weakest point, which would be left unguarded for that very same reason. Afterwards she had been frowning so much that Ivar had sent her to work digging trenches that would soon be filled with wooden spikes. 

Of course, it was the very moment Ivar took his eyes off her that she went and got herself in another fight. 

According to what Ivar had been told, the men had been enjoying their thrall when she had come upon them and attacked them with the shovel (and what was with this woman and shovels? By the gods, if she was already a menace with farming tools, she would be deadly with a sword) so viciously that they had to call for help to stop her. It hadn’t ended very well, clearly, because two others had been stabbed, one of the men had lost a few fingers and more, and the other had yet to wake up.

According to what he had seen from the tower of the church where he had been perched, observing the progress of his traps, Gwyn, whose section he had been paying more attention than to the others, had straightened up like an arrow, vigilant, the moment she had seen something among the people moving in the next street. Then she had taken the shovel she had been using, propped it on her shoulder, and stalked after whatever caught her attention with long strides. 

Of course Ivar had followed.

He had moved through his perch, careful to try and see. There were two men with a young woman between them. They were dragging her and she was putting up a fight, kicking and surely screaming. He had seen Gwyn taking the shovel of her shoulder.

He had left the church and began to crawl as fast as he could.

It was Aoife. It was her. The same red dress, torn and filthy, the same tangled mane, the same sad eyes and tear-stricken face. She had been carrying a pitcher with her when one of the men she was serving had leered at her and palmed her ass, making her jump in fright and shiver. She had hung her head low, eyes on the floor, waiting. The other man, clearly older, had said something with a smile, then shouted something at another Viking, and both had jumped out of the pit, made Aoife leave the pitcher on the floor, and began to drag her away by her wrists. Her sister had begun to cry then, and Gwyn frowned. Then, they pulled, and she was being carried with such force her feet barely touched the ground. 

The sleeping beast inside of Gwyn’s breast roared back to live. Without wasting a moment, she took one look around, grabbed the shovel, palmed the axe on her belt and the knife she had pilfered from Ivar and hidden in her boot, and went on her merry way, straight after those bastards. Straight to Aoife. Her very soul was roaring for blood.

They were trying to shove her sister into a dirty alley, already laughing, joking and palming at her body as they made lecherous comments and terrible promises. Gwyn was glad Aoife couldn’t understand them. She put the shovel down and growled dangerously. The men, hearing that sound, stopped, but didn’t release Aoife at all.

“What do you want?” one of them barked in norse. The youngest. 

“Wait Huld, she is Prince Ivar’s Thrall” said the eldest. He switched to English “Does the prince command our presence, woman?” Gwyn meditated about it. She could lie about it. She could nod and have Ivar deal with them when they bothered him without a cause. Then she took a good look at her sister. Aoife was covered in cuts and bruises. Pale, thin, with a haunted look. She was looking at Gwyn with so much pain and despair in her young eyes, Gwyn broke. She broke. Everything went black. 

Gwyn calmly went to the men, swung her shovel, and caught the youngest, who had been holding Aoife, right in the head. He went down without a sound, like a bag of dirt. He didn’t stir again. 

The eldest was more experienced and kept his distance, but Gwyn swung the shovel again, and, the moment he caught it to wrench it from her hands, she let go, making him have the force he had tried to use to take the shovel from her turn against him, and it made him retrocede a few paces, giving her time to free her axe and catch him in his closed fist. Flesh trapped between sharp metal and the wood of the shovel’s handle, that acted like the perfect cutting board.

A few fingers fell to the floor followed by a fountain of blood. 

Aoife had curled in a corner, and was crying and whimpering quietly, trying to make herself as small as she could while wailing bitterly. 

Attracted by the screams of the men, a crowd had gathered there to watch the fight. Some were even cheering her on. The man grabbed his mutilated hand and roared in pain, swinging at her with the shovel. She threw herself to the ground to dodge, and there, kneeling in front of him, swung the axe as hard as she could in an ascending arch. It caught him in the groin, and he fell to the ground, hands in his balls as the blood started soaking through his clothes. A third man emerged from the crowd with a roar of his own, followed by other two. Ah, it must be the other brother. They tried to jump Gwyn, and one of them managed to take her axe and kicked it away from her, but she screamed, twisted, and took a bite out of his ear. She didn’t let go until she was sure she would take flesh away with her, never mind the hits that the other brother gave her, which fell on her already bruised ribs and made her hiss in pain. With blood running down his neck, his grip on her faltered enough that she was able to reach into her boot, and soon she was free again, after stabbing several times in the belly the other man that was holding her. 

Gwyn ran towards her sister, grabbing the axe and pointing both, knife and axeblade towards the third man. He stood there, panting and huffing, asking the crowd to lend him a hand to kill this thrall. But some of the men, she recognized. They were Ivar’s guards and she was Ivar’s thrall. They would not risk torture and death by harming what was his master’s. She knew Ivar would arrive soon, if the guards were already there. 

She wondered how much she could get away with and decided to take a gamble.

She had seen Ivar practising with his knives multitude of times. 

She rose her hand.

The blade left her hand the very same moment Ivar appeared in the front row and embedded itself in the shoulder of the brother all the way to the hilt with a sickening crunch.

Part of the crowd roared in admiration. The other part roared for her blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please please pretty pretty please leave a comment
> 
> I really would like to know what do you think of the story this far
> 
>  
> 
> Love you all to pieces
> 
> Luna


	10. Meetings

Ivar couldn’t stop smiling while he watched her fight. She had only been watching the warriors train and already had learnt a few moves. And the way she threw that knife. That was all him, copied perfectly. It was worth all the hassle that followed. 

He had settled it by paying the weregild for the father who had lost his fingers and, he thought with a snicker, one of his balls, and had both his cock and his one remaining ball left to the mercy of the gods and the dangers of infection. He also paid for the son that had been stabbed, the friends who had been stabbed and had lost an ear, the price for the young man who had been hit in the head and hadn’t woken yet, and finally, the price of the girl. She was a very pretty girl, even dirty and bruised, with a nice body. 

But that wasn’t what was interesting about her at all. What made her worthy of the sum he had paid for her was the way she clung to Gwyn, softly crying on her breast, and the tender way Gwyn had kissed the girl’s forehead and caressed her hair. She had savagely growled to anyone that had come close to them until Ivar had ordered her to go to their room, and to take the girl with her. 

She was worth it because, once the news had propagated through the city like wildfire, Ubbe had appeared like an avenging spirit ready to defend Gwyn, only to find the matter settled by Ivar, which filled the youngest with immeasurable pride. He had insisted on checking on the girl, and Ivar had relented, if only because, if Gwyn decided to go full she bear with her cub, Ubbe would be an easier, larger target for her anger. 

Both of them froze when they heard a crystal-clear voice singing, followed by the sound of water and soft crying. 

Ubbe knocked on the door, and then opened it slowly, only to find Gwyn barricaded behind the heavy wooden table. It was from behind it that the soft crying turned into a cry of alarm and desperate sobbing. Gwyn frowned at them, glared, first at Ubbe, and then at Ivar, and disappeared once again behind the table. The singing returned. 

The brothers were left speechless.

It was Gwyn.

Ivar was smiling like a madman, and dragged himself until he had his back propped against the table and was rearranging his legs so he could be more comfortable. 

“Valkyrie! At sweet last we hear your voice!” he laughed “and what a lovely voice is that! Sing louder! I think Ubbe cannot hear that well” Ivar even closed his eyes to enjoy the song. It was a silly song, true, soothing and tender. It was, Ivar understood with a jolt, a lullaby. 

“Ivar” Ubbe muttered. He ignored him, and Ubbe retaliated by kicking Ivar’s bounded feet. He was staring at the floor. Ah, Ivar understood. For someone as tall as Ubbe, the table did not hide the women if he came to close by. How adorable, his big brother was. 

“Ubbe” he replied. Irritated, but still intrigued, Ubbe sat down in front of Ivar.

“Tell us, my Valkyrie, Who is this girl, that has you making my men bleed? Again” The singing stopped. Ivar missed it, but he wanted her to talk to him first. Not to Ubbe. To him. There was a sight. A sound that told Ivar she had dropped the sponge into the water. There was no crying, but the pained respiration of those who are mortally scared. A sigh. 

“She is my sister” came the answer. Ivar smiled, triumphant. She had answered him! Him! 

“Your sister, your sister! And how old is this pretty little sister of yours?” Ivar asked, not being able to resist needling her a little bit. She growled in response. 

“No, no, don’t” came the hushed pleas of the sister that was in the bathtub. 

“Shhhh, it will be okay, let go little lamb, let go” Gwyn soothed her and soon she emerged from behind her improvised wall, ready to face the Vikings. She was standing proud and straight, looking down on them. It was a good look on her. The fire in her eyes, the hair messed, and the clothes bloodstained. Ivar’s cock gave an interested twitch, but he tried his best to ignore it. Getting hard was a novelty for him, but it would not sit well with Gwyn, he just knew it. Especially after mentioning her sister. His cock might be mostly useless, but he still was fond of the thing, he had no wish to get mauled. He flinched in sympathy for the man injured that day.

“What?” she spat, clearly irked after a few minutes of silence.

“You cut off that guys balls” Ivar told her, with a smirk, trying to reign in his laughter “you cut his fingers, and then his balls, and wounded both his sons. And stole his thrall”

“She is my sister” Gwyn said, like it explained everything. And it really did. Ivar knew. He wanted to tell him about his mother, about Lagertha. He was sure that once she knew the story, Gwyn would side with him when the time came to have his vengeance. Ubbe opened his big fat mouth before Ivar had anytime at all to answer her.

“Is she well?” he asked softly, giving Gwyn that nauseating baby deer look Ivar had seen him use in uncountable women before. He had expected her to melt, or blush, or react like all the other had done. He should have known better. Gwyn lit up like a torch, eyes furious, fists resting in her hips, flushed with rage.

“No, she is not well, Ubbe, How do you suppose any of them are going to be well? I don’t know if you have noticed but she is starving, the had beaten her black and blue, and they bloody raped her on a daily basis!!! Of course she is not well Ubbe!” Ivar was delighted, watching his brother trying to shrink as she shouted. Her voice was like thunder, still a little bit rough, maybe for lack of use, and the effect was astonishing. And frightening. He loved it.

“Oh, and there is that little tiny detail of our country being invaded, our city taken, and our family murdered, I don’t know, How do you think it feels, Prince Ubbe?” she practically spat the title like it was an insult. Ivar felt the urgent need to clap. What a gem! And to think she had been silent for so long… what a waste. He would have given a good pile of gold worthy of a dragon’s hoard to see his brothers getting tongue-whipped like this.

If Ubbe had been a dog, he would have been whining, tail between his legs and trying his very best to show his belly. But he was a human, so he tried to make himself as small as possible, and when that didn’t work, he muttered a soft ‘sorry’ and then fled the room. Ivar hoper that he fled to go cry somewhere. 

With Ubbe gone, her focus was now on Ivar. But he readied himself for the match. He wouldn’t be thrown away from his own rooms. Well, at least not now that she was talking, of all things.

“I know how it feels” he said, before she could even speak. The change was immediate. She froze, and her eyes turned suspicious.

“Do you, now?” She pinned him with her gaze, then checked on her sister, and there was the sound of fabric ripping. Gwyn came back, sat on his lap without any warning and pushed a piece of cloth over his eyes. Gwyn whispered in his ear. 

“If you try and move, I will do my best to stab you somewhere painful” the sharp cold bite of a metal blade caressed his neck, right on the main arteries. When had she taken one of his knives? By the gods either she was a very good thief, or he was too distracted by her to notice. 

Ivar allowed the manhandling, enjoying the way her body had him pinned against the wood, soaking in her warmth, and, again, trying not to think how close she was to his prick. He gave her a feral smile.

“Oh, you won’t stab me, my Valkyrie. After all, I am the reason you will be able to keep her by your side” That statement silenced her, and it was a long moment until she shifted, smirking savagely, and carefully dragged his dagger along his body in a mock caress, until the blade rested right on top of his prick. The feeling of the blade traveling across his body made him shudder in pleasure. What a woman. Ignorant to the emotions and sensation she coaxed to life in his body, Gwyn called to her sister. 

Ivar couldn’t see, but Gwyn spent those moments gaping, incredulous, and studying his face with her. His expression was smug, happy and eager, like he just go exactly the present he wanted for his birthday. It made him look younger than he was, and the knife in her hand retreated a few precious millimetres from its position at his crotch.

“You can get out now” Gwyn said, and, obediently, the sounds indicated that the girl was out of the bath and carefully drying herself. Then the sound of bare feet over the cold floor. Ivar was painfully aware of her body on top of his and tried his best to ignore it but it was hard. He was getting hard, right there at her mercy and with the threat of the knife hanging over him.

She was so close, so tempting…

“What’s her name?” Ivar asked, trying to distract himself. In the silence of the room, he could hear the rustle of the fabric as the sister put on her clothes. 

“None of your business. What do you mean, that you know?” she asked instead, dodging the question and pushing her weight against him, like she expected him to throw her to the floor and go after her precious sister any second. Ivar tried to think why it wasn’t wise to let her be so disrespectful towards him but couldn’t strand two thoughts together that wasn’t about their naked bodies rutting against each other. He tried to concentrate, to answer. He began to talk as to keep his mind away of the pleasant weight of her breasts against his chest. Even knowing it was there, he forgot the presence of the knife.

“My home, Kattegat. I went Viking with my father, King Ragnar. There was a storm and our ships sunk. There were very few of us to begin with, and even less when we managed to come ashore. My father was captured by King Ecbert, who gave him to king Aelle to be executed. He negotiated with Ecbert to spare me, and I was sent back home, to my mother. When I arrived, Lagertha, the mother of my older brother Bjorn, had raided our home while Ubbe and Sigurd were away with a woman. She took Kattegat from us, crowned herself queen and exiled us to a hunting cabin in the mountains. She killed my mother. It wasn’t even honourable. Not in combat, or during the conquest. She had already won. My mother surrendered the city to her. She had already won. But she took a bow and shot my mother in the back” Ivar was glad for the cloth covering his eyes. It hid his tears. 

Gwyn froze. 

“Then why?” she asked, “Why would you do to others the same thing that caused you so much suffering?” she couldn’t understand, and at the same time, she did. She had felt it before. The need to destroy. To hurt everyone until they hurt like she did.

“It is our way. We fight, to win riches and land while we are on Midgard, and to earn our place in Valhalla” Gwyn was very confused, she didn’t understand any that, not at all. Aoife interrupted them when she came back, fully dressed. She looked lovely. Aoife took one look at the Viking, then at her sister sitting in his lap, and went very pale. 

“Gwyn…” she whined.

“Don’t worry little girl, I’m just a cripple” Ivar said, trying to smile encouragingly. Only, Ivar’s smiles only ranged from ‘sharp toothed monster ready to devour you’ to ‘sweet innocent pumpkin’ only stopping along the way in ‘predator hunting prey’ and ‘sadistic prick that was going to hurt you’. The smile Aoife saw fell on the latest category, and it was a veritable miracle that the girl didn’t wet herself at all. Gwyn rose from his lap, taking the cloth with her, and he mourned her loss bitterly, already plotting how to get her back.

“Just a cripple, my ass!” she said with a snort, and Ivar stared at her in shock. He could just watch as she gently guided her sister towards the great window, filled a plate with food and sat in front of the girl to watch her eat. He left, feeling that Gwyn would not pay attention to him unless he made her, and then she would be angry at him. 

He managed to win her undivided attention that very same night, when he retired to his room and laid on the bed. Gwyn had laid her sister in bed and hugged her tightly to her chest. Which put her right in the middle of the bed, and the girl was not pleased when she discovered that the healthy distance she liked to keep with Ivar at night was now zero. Ivar had put his metaphorical foot down, and refused to be kicked out of his own bed, but gently offered to have more furs brought for them both so they would be comfortable in the floor. Gwyn had huffed, glared, and turned her back to him, clearly dismissing his offer. Gwyn’s sister began to cry as soon as he joined them on the bed, and Ivar felt a pang of something bitter and horrible in his chest. Somehow, the ugly sobs of that poor girl made him feel guilty. Irritated and feeling petty, he too turned around, and spooned Gwyn. The last thing he felt before falling asleep were two vicious pinches in the flesh of his arms, that would undoubtedly leave marks. Soon he was sleeping, with a smile in his lips and two very noticeable purple marks in his right arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, pretty pretty please, leave a comment!! 
> 
> Are you enjoying the story this far?
> 
> How do you like the style?
> 
> Fav moments? characters? sugestions? critics?
> 
> Love you all so much
> 
>  
> 
> xoxoxoxoxo
> 
> Luna


	11. Sisters

Gwyn began to cry the moment the soldiers that had dragged away them left them alone in Ivar’s rooms. They hadn’t been able to pry Aoife from her arms this time, and she had lashed out viciously at them, screaming bloody murder and snapping her teeth at them with all the rage of a she-bear protecting her cub. Her gaze met Ivar’s for one moment, as she stood there, arms around Aoife’s small waist, kicking at the soldiers and growling like a cornered wolf. Ivar was looking at her in a way she had never seen before. Reverent. Awed. Like she was the Holy Mother appearing before him to preach her gospel. It distracted her for a moment, and that was all it took for one of the biggest warriors to get his arms around them both and lift them from the ground. Soon another man was helping him, carrying their legs. Off they went, to the unknown, and Gwyn started sweating. She could feel Aoife clutching her desperately and sobbing against her chest, both sisters holding to each other desperately. 

They dropped them in the bed and left without glancing back. Aoife started wailing then, a loud mournful cry that shattered the heart of anyone who heard it. Gwyn patted her head, but soon she was sobbing too, and half blinded by the tears streaming down her face, she laid there, content of just holding her sister in her arms. 

Some time passed, but no one came. Not the soldiers, not the servants, not Ivar. Not even Ubbe. This solitude seemed to be reassuring to Aoife, who sat up and began to pull her towards the door.

“Gwyn, Oh Gwyn, we have to escape. We have to go now! They will kill you! They will… We have to go!” knowing exactly what was waiting outside of the door, Gwyn allowed Aoife to guide her to the exit, a sad expression on her face. As soon as her sister opened the door and looked at the two guards that were keeping watch screamed and closed the door with a loud bang, resting against it with her whole weight, as if they would try to come in any minute now. 

“Aoife” she called, nothing more than a croak. But it was progress. She was surprised she had been able to talk at all, when a few days prior she hadn’t been able to answer Eldrida no matter how hard she tried.

“Oh Good Lord, you made them bleed Gwyn! You attacked them! Oh God, Oh God, there was blood, there was so much blood… What if they are dead? What do I do? What do we do? They are going to kill us… They are going to…Gwyn…”

“No, no, no, no, no” Aoife’s eyes were big and panicked. 

Gwyn easily caught her when she tried to barricade the door. Ivar did not take kindly to be locked out of his own rooms. Gwyn knew it better than anyone. She had done it to him twice already, and both times she had received a silent treatment that lasted at least a day, completed with offended glares and the prince pouting and turning his face from her. It also included petty punishments, like mending tears in his clothes that looked suspiciously recent or cleaning the rooms by herself with the smallest brush they could find.

She held her sister against her chest, gently rocking back and forth, humming under her breath and old lullaby.

“I have been so scared Gwyn… I… They… Oh Gwyn, I’m ruined. Ruined forever. And we can’t escape. And now they will kill you for what you did, and then they will punish me, and it will be much worse, day after day after day…”

“They won’t hurt you” Gwyn said with great effort, her voice, accusing the disuse, was more a croak than anything, and the mere act of speaking sent her into a coughing fit, throat trying to cleanse itself. Once it had passed, she repeated.

“They won’t hurt you. I won’t let them” Aoife clung to her again and began to sob anew. They slowly sank to their knees, and Gwyn cried too, for it broke her heart, to see her young bubbly sister like this. She had always been such a gentle child, so beautiful, and kind, and lively. Aoife had had a ton of friends, the girls around her age drawn to her like moths to the flame. 

Gwyn, older, and more introverted, had delighted in watching her sister be like a bright shining star in the gloomy days of York. She had always made sure she was free to go play with her friends, mended the tears in her dresses, took over her chores and kept treats close by to hand out to the little rascals once they were done adventuring. All of it, except her beauty, was gone. The carefree girl Gwyn had so carefully protected was now broken, scarred and scared, and the older girl wished she could be given a little bit more of time with those men. And sharp knives.

“You are not ruined Aoife. Not at all” Gwyn said calmly

“Yes I am! I… with them… I… Father always warned us about men! Now what shall we do? Staying here is hell, but if we go, we will have no one. We are trapped! Trapped in hell. Maybe they will kill us both. They will kill us both and be done with it” Aoife muttered darkly.

Gwyn gulped. She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. This was the only thing keeping her from escaping, and they had delivered her right into her lap. There had to be more weapons in the room. Ivar had an insane amount of knives. She could arm Aoife and she could take down the guards at the door. By surprise, striking down in their legs, just were Ivar had pointed the big arteries that held the blood were. Then down the hall and the stairs all the way to the kitchens, and through to the roman walls. They had been neglected of lately, and had few men watching. Either climb or break a part down, and then off, off to freedom, to the woods, to the nearest city. 

They could do it.

But if they could not? Gwyn’s ribs were much better, but they pained her after a long day at work. She had been well feed, but Aoife had been starved and could barely walk without wobbling around in pain. The walls were guarded, she knew because it had been Ivar who ordered the men to hide themselves. The Viking lord would get his men to hunt them down.

They couldn’t do it.

If they stayed, maybe Ivar would protect Aoife. 

But Aoife was beautiful. 

Ivar might do to Aoife exactly the same things her other captors had done or give her to his men. Then again, none of the sons of Ragnar had been prone to force her. Maybe they wouldn’t force Aoife either, and if that was the case, then, then, Why not take the chance? To have her rest, and eat, and be in comfort. In any case, there were rumours of an attack. Eldrida was convinced that rescue was on its way. Plan already forming in her mind, Gwyn guided Aoife to the bed, and ran to call a Thrall. The girl, whom she did not recognise, was tasked to find clothes for her sister, and soap, towels and to draw water for her bath. Gwyn will cleanse her from her captivity, and then they could plot together how to escape. 

“Aoife” she said to her sister as she helped her into the tub “You have to be patient. Yes? Eldrida said the king would try and take the city back soon. It will be over soon”

“I hope you are right Gwyn… I really hope you are”

The interruption of the bath by two Viking men was not the best way to reassure Aoife of her safety, and she was skittish as a new-born lamb. She had begun crying and chanting ‘no’ under her breath, and Gwyn had to order her about with sharp words to get her to move. The she got rid of them.

Ubbe, she had sent packing with no trouble at all, but Ivar had been more difficult. Ivar was dangerous. Ivar was a brat poking at this new plaything he had discovered. Gwyn had sat on him and held a knife she took from his own hip to his throat, and then to his balls, covering his eyes and making sure he hadn’t taken too much interest in Aoife’s naked body, who had acquired a womanly shape at the tender age of thirteen, and now at fifteen attracted unwanted leers left and right.

“So he is the one that ….” Aoife said once the door closed behind Ivar. 

“He hasn’t done a thing, surprisingly” Gwyn responded quietly and Aoife stopped dead on her tracks.

“What?” she clearly couldn’t believe it. None of them ever believed her. Gwyn remembered Eldrida asking her once about it, and bidding her not to be ashamed, and to unburden herself on her shoulder. Gwyn had been at a loss, not knowing how to explain that they had not touched her. At all. It was thanks the lord almighty she had been spared the pain, and she was deeply grateful for it. Gwyn didn’t know if she could have survived that. 

“Ivar and his brothers don’t touch me”

“I saw you with my own eyes, you touched him, you… seemed familiar with each other” her eyes were hard, accusatory. It sounded more like a snarl.

“I did not want him to peek. He’ s already used to the whole me pointing sharp things at him” Gwyn tried to joke, but it only seemed to irk Aoife even more.

“You threaten him, and he doesn’t say a thing? You defy him and he doesn’t punish you? And you tell he hasn’t forced you at all?” Her tone began climbing until it was a full shriek. She leaped to her feet, wobbling and clearly pained, but fury kept her upright.

“One of his brothers beat me so badly he nearly killed me Aoife, I have not been without trials myself” she said warningly. She was conscious of the fact that she had a better life than many other thralls, and it was a bit of a sore spot that it had been her violent reaction that granted her the reprieve when they had been punished even more for their docility. Then again. It wasn’t her fault. Her first objective when behaving like that was to goad them into killing her before they could rape her. Aoife huffed. Huffed! And turned around, walking to the bed in unstable legs. She sat down and gently caressed the furs that covered it.

“So he never held you down so his brothers could take turns on you? He never hurt you so bad you bled for days after?” Aoife spat. She was furious. Gwyn flinched and tried to make herself smaller. 

“Yes, I see what trials you have endured, sister mine” she gave the covers a pat “Hard indeed”

When Aoife raised her eyes to meet her sisters, they were full of tears and sorrow. 

“Why did you leave me? Why?” she cried “They took me away, and they… Where were you?! I thought…. I thought… I had to be strong. For you. For mother and father. I thought ‘be strong, endure, and Gwyn will come to rescue you, she will fix this, she always fixes things’ but now I discover …. I discover…” her voice broke. 

Gwyn threw herself to her knees in front of her sister, trying to held her hands while Aoife tried to shove her away, slapping at her. 

“Aoife! Aoife! I swear to you I did try to hold on to you! I’m sorry!” Gwyn tried to cover herself as her sister tried to beat her, but her blows were weak as a kitten’s compared to the Vikings, and Gwyn only hissed in pain when Aoife’s nails dug into her skin. 

“Liar! You let go of me! You let me go and now look! You have no idea how it was Gwyn, You have no idea! They ruined me forever! and you were here, sitting around on your ass getting pampered like some kind of pet!” 

At last, Gwyn managed to catch her hands and hold her down. She gently guided her to the bed and lied on it, spooning her sister like she did when Aoife was a child. 

“I did not choose to be spared Aoife”

“You still left”

“I’m sorry”

“Promise me Gwyn, you will fix this, promise me, things will be like before”

It was childish, and hopeless, but this was her sweet sister they were talking about, and Gwyn nodded. She had to grew up faster than Gwyn ever wanted her to, and she would do anything to allow her a little childish reprieve from the horrors she had lived.

“I promise”

Then Ivar had returned. Gwyn huffed in indignation. Did he think she would let him sleep in there? In the end, she had to concede when he would not back off, not even for some serious pinch and twist moves in the flesh of his arms. With a frustrated groan, she allowed him to cuddle against her back and went to sleep. 

The next days were a flurry of preparations. For Gwyn and Aoife, though, it was different. Since some of the warriors were giving her the stink-eye, Ivar had Gwyn on a short leash, and had her come with him everywhere, always heavily guarded, always by her side. And since Gwyn would not allow Aoife to be left behind, and now would argue loudly against it, and so the sisters were always found together by Ivar’s side, be it in the streets, the training grounds, or a meeting with the captains of Ivar’s army. Gwyn spent the days catering to Ivar’s needs, repeating like a parrot all the new words he insisted she learnt, and reassuring Aoife that all would be well. When the news of the attack arrived, her sister was filled with hope and recovered some of her former light, smiling gently and looking much better. Maybe too much, since Gwyn had to put a knife through half a table when Hvitserk’s eyes lingered far too much time on Aoife’s sweet smile and shinning eyes at the dinner table. The warrior had flinched and had his hand over his testicles the rest of the feast, to Ivar’s amusement. He had even encouraged her, needling his brother with sweet words praising Aoife’s ethereal beauty while reassuring Gwyn that if she wanted, this time, he would not intervene.

That very night Aoife had been given a small room with a cot down the hall from Ivar’s room, with a door that locked with a key. Ivar had allowed Gwyn to walk her sister to her room each night, and to spend time with her there, before coming back to his bed. When the first movements on the Saxon’s troops were seen by the guards, the sisters spent the night there, huddled together in Aoife’s small cot, quietly praying, and knowing the next day might be the last they spent as thralls. 

“They will win, God guides them, surely they will prevail against this godless heathens, right Gwyn?”

“Sure” she said, and grimly thought of the traps that had been laid around the city, about Ivar’s careful plans, said over the war table in a language that her sister did not understand but she did now, thanks to the Viking warrior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty pretty please, remember to leave a comment if you already left a kudo or if you wanna tell me how are you liking the story so far ( i really really want to know <3)
> 
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> Love you all to pieces!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Luna <3 <3 <3


	12. Battle

The Saxons took the bait and fell right into Ivar’s clutches. 

He watched it all unfold from his privileged seat on top of the church’s tower. He had both Gwyn and her sister, whose name he had managed to coerce out of them with time, food, and soft words in even softer tones. Aoife. His brothers had already joined the fray, and he longed to get down there too, but he had been busy looking at the enraptured expression on Gwyn’s face as she looked the battle unfold before her. He followed with his eyes the warrior with the long blade and took a last look at his woman. He left to fetch his cart. 

So this was war.

Gwyn had thought nothing about war before. Then, it had been death, and blood, and loss. But now… it was art. It was like dancing. To see Ivar’s strategy unfold, it was simply beautiful. Now she saw the way they were leading on the Saxons through the streets of the city, she could see the northerners running with the wooden planks they used to block their path from here to there, herding them effortlessly. 

Perfect. 

She had her hands on the stony banister, body tense, trying to get a better look. She didn’t notice Ivar leaving until she heard the sound of his chariot flying through the streets. Her breath caught in her throat. Aoife plastered herself to her side, her slender arms hugging her so hard it hurt her ribs. 

“Gwyn” she cried “Gwyn I’m scared, Gwyn” she kissed her hair and hugged her back, eyes on Ivar. It was…

She couldn’t look away. She had lost sight of Ubbe and Hvitserk as soon as they entered the narrowest streets, but Ivar’s chariot made him stand out enough that she was always able to find it. Other warrior stood up, with a bright short and movements that reminded her of water flowing, he carved a path through the heathen army. 

There was a great crash that took her eyes off the saxon warrior and stared at the source of the sound. It was Ivar’s chariot, now broken in the floor. But where was Ivar? A pang of fear seized her chest. Where was he? Heart beating wildly against her ribs, Gwyn left her crying sister in one of the furs that served them as seats and frantically scanned the square. He couldn’t have fallen so easily. Not Ivar. He was practically a demon! He couldn’t be killed so easily. She repeated those words in her head like a prayer. She could see how the men concentrated in the square were Ivar had fallen, and suddenly she knew. That would be the last fight of the day. The destiny of York would be decided in that place. The world seemed to become silent, holding its breath. There was only the rain.

Of course, that, when she found Ivar again, he was right at the centre of it. There was a pregnant pause, the silence allowing her to listen to Ivar’s voice, and his fearsome cries.

“YOU CAN’T KILL ME!” He howled at the top of his lungs “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!” he was gesturing at the enemy soldiers, who were, and rightfully so, terrified of this one man, sitting by his chariot, unable to use his legs yet still challenging them.  
“I AM IVAR THE BONELESS! YOU CAN’T KILL ME! I AM IVAR THE BONELESS! I AM IVAR THE BONELESS. YOU CAN’T KILL ME! YOU CAN’T KILL ME!” Gwyn didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until the rest of the pagan army arrived at Ivar’s back. His cries had shaken her to the bone. Beside the roaring flame in her chest that drank on the chaos and beauty of the battlefield, another monster awoke, something dark and twisted that answered Ivar’s howls with one of her own. It was a call to battle, and Gwyn wanted to answer it. She was aflame. She needed to move, and yet she stayed put, a ball of energy concentrated, pulling at her skin, tugging at her soul, longing to be set free. She needed to do something, but she didn’t know what. 

It was so fast, that for Gwyn it lasted barely a minute. The Saxons fled, the battle was over, and Gwyn led her sister to the cosy room they had found for her, while she went to her, and Ivar’s, rooms. Not knowing what was expected of her, and needing to do at least something, she ordered a bath to be prepared and searched in the chest where he kept his clothes for something he could wear afterwards. They were strange people, these northmen. They bathed every few days and spent a lot of time combing their hair and trimming their beards. Ivar himself bathed every few days, groomed himself carefully each morning, and spent and unholy amount of time working on his hair every day. He even had ordered her to be bathed at least twice a week and gave her several sets of clothing so she could change daily. Gwyn was sure that she had bathed more during her captivity than in all her old life put together. She supposed he would like to clean himself, and it gave her something to focus on. And maybe, just maybe, between the victory, the bath, and the rest, Ivar would be in a good mood and forget about Gwyn and Aoife for a little while… maybe give them a little more space… 

The other thralls had been crying the whole battle, and now they sent glares in Gwyn direction, clearly resenting her orders, though they obeyed her, red eyed and sniffling pitifully . But time passed and there was no sign of Ivar. Intrigued, Gwyn left the room to search for him. She found him surrounded by his warriors, who were all hailing him. The chant surrounded them like the sea, and she feared she would drown. 

“IVAR, IVAR, IVAR” mixed with cries of “BONELESS, BONELESS” other were shouting “RAGNAR” but Ivar was the star. One of his men had him on his shoulders, and he was shouting too, roaring, encouraging the crowd, basking in their admiration. He was smiling, fierce and happy in a way she had never seen before. Gwyn stayed at the back, silently observing everything from a corner with an amused smile on her face. Ivar was a big child, looking like a goofball while singing songs with words she could not understand, but, by the way everyone laughed and joined in the singing, spraying ale everywhere, were clearly obscene. So oblivious to the rest of the world that she was, that she didn’t see Ubbe and Hvitserk appearing right behind her until the very last moment.

“Gwyn” Ubbe said, and then dodged Gwyn’s clumsy attempt at punching him. He smiled. “How are you?” 

“I’m perfectly fine” she answered. She had been inside the whole time, with no risk to her or her sister whatsoever. She didn’t understand the question at all, it wasn’t like she could have been hurt. Ubbe nodded.

“And your sister?” he asked again. He was still bleeding from a gash in his temple, the blood pouring in a lazy trickle. It was kind of bothering Gwyn. Couldn’t he get parched first, and then come talk to her?

“Aoife is… holding it together. She had many hopes pinned on the gallant knights of the king saving the day. Many of our women had them. And now they are all dust. She is… she is well, for the situation” Ubbe flinched, and then grimaced, his face sad and his happiness for the recent victory visibly subdued. Gwyn regretted nothing, even if the expression of his face resembled a kicked puppy. They were slaves! Of course they wanted their people to win so they could be free! 

“We want to talk to you” Hvitserk said, and Gwyn arched her brows in surprise. It was the first time he talked to her since they had fought. He was covered in blood from head to toe, but he didn’t seem to be hurt.

“About what?” she asked, suspicious. Hvitserk being nice and civilized towards her was a clear sign that something was very wrong. He had taken to avoid her except to exchange barbs during dinner, to the amusement of Ivar. 

“Come with us, it will only take a moment, Gwyn” Ubbe said. Gwyn looked one more time at Ivar, who seemed to be having the time of his life as people talked to him and clapped him in the back and laughed with him and nodded. She followed the brothers to a practically abandoned corner and crossed her arms, waiting for them to talk. Still, she was tense, waiting for them to attack her now that they were in a deserted corner. Her hand went unconsciously to the knife she had pilfered that morning from Ivar’s stash and that she kept in the back of her belt. 

“Gwyn, we have a proposition to you…” Ubbe began, only to be cut by Hvitserk

“Ivar looks up to you, for some reason. He listens. If you ask, he won’t refuse” Gwyn frowned. Like she had that much power over Ivar. She was only a slave. 

And how she hated the fact that she was a slave.

“We want to begin a settlement” Ubbe said “A place where we can farm and live in peace with the Christians. We have always wanted that. After a few raids, my father got into an agreement with King Ecbert, to create a Viking settlement. In exchange for the land, we would protect their coast. But he destroyed the settlement as soon as my father’s army wasn’t there to enforce the treaty. He slaughtered them all. Before we took our vengeance, King Ecbert gave us a part of his kingdom for our own. We need to secure it first, but it was our father’s vision and we would have it done, if we can” 

“And we can” said Hvitserk “If only we could get Ivar to use the army to secure our lands” 

Gwyn frowned. A permanent colony? In Wessex? They wanted all this bloodthirsty throng to become peaceful farmers? Gwyn couldn’t help herself. She laughed. She laughed until she was doubled over and had tears running down her cheeks. 

“Oh boys, I don’t think they can become farmers, not at all” she said, gesturing towards the mass of warriors outside. Hvitserk looked like a kicked puppy, and Gwyn felt the sudden urge to pet him. Ubbe took her by her arms and took a step towards her. She tensed, ready to snap. He was too close.

“Please, Gwyn. You might be our only chance to honour our father’s legacy. To have peace” He took her hands in his big, warm ones. His eyes shone an impossible blue.

“Peace, Gwyn. Once we secure the lands, only some warriors would remain, as protection, nothing more. Ivar would take the rest back with him… and the ones that stay here… we will protect you. No one would raid in this land again. No one would hurt you again” Ubbe looked so hopeful, Gwyn had to agree to at least try to talk to Ivar. Ubbe and Hvitserk walked her back to her room, Ubbe’s hands lingering in her arm in a way that, for some reason, made her nervous. 

She entered the room and discovered the bath barely lukewarm, and not a single thrall in sight. Clever girls. She had locked Aoife up, even as she cried, and protested, grabbing at her, desperate in the wake of the saxon’s defeat. She was sure it was the end for them all, and Gwyn bitterly had to agree with her. She had locked her with food, drink and the instruction of being very quiet until she came to fetch her. Gwyn wore the key to Aoife’s room in a cord around her neck as extra security. Any female thrall with a lick of sense that could, would be hiding today. 

Gwyn, for some reason, was calm about it. Maybe because after the events of the day she herself was spoiling for a fight of her own. She was halfway the tedious process of reheating the bath water when the door opened with a bang and Ivar dragged himself inside, still being hailed by his guards. 

“Valkyrie!” he cried “Have you seen our victory? The gods blessed us today. We fought well and triumphed!” he was smiling like mad, still covered in blood and grime. Something in that picture stirred something else inside Gwyn’s chest, a jolt of electricity coursing through her body to her crotch. It was so sudden and so strange she jumped on her feet. 

“You had a good strategy” she said. He had played them perfectly, and she could admit that it had been breath taking. Ivar stopped mid-crawl. He looked at her like she had grown another head. Feeling uncomfortable and full of pent up energy, Gwyn turned around and kept refilling the tub. “I prepared a bath. There is also food. Are you hurt?”

“An arrow wound, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t bleed anymore” Ivar said, trying to play it down and gain some time. He was at a loss. 

She thought his strategy was good? Bjorn had been so reluctant to use his plan the first time, it had taken Floki, Ubbe and Hvitserk to convince him to follow through, and she thought it was good? And she had prepared him a bath, and for what he could see, there were fresh clothes and food and drink too. She had offered to take care of his wounds. Ivar was touched, and quite confused. She was… behaving like a person, not quite like a thrall, not quite like the other free-women. Ignoring the bath she was filling, he dragged himself to a chair, and drained the cup and shoved some food in his mouth, chewing loudly. She wasn’t hissing, glaring or anything like that, and it Irked Ivar to no end. He didn’t how to act with this civilized Gwyn. 

And so, Ivar took the most obvious solution. Rile her up until she snapped back into normal. 

“Valkyrie, come here” and surprisingly, she did. Was he in Valhalla? This could not be Midgard at all. He snorted. If he had crossed into Valhalla, his father would have been the first to greet him, and then Sigurd, the little shit, would probably toss an axe at him. “I need help with my armour and my clothes” He stated and extended his arms towards her. 

Gwyn’s breath caught when she got to see the leather vest and the chainmail covered in blood and gore from up close. She licked her lips and dared to look at Ivar’s face. He was covered in grime and blood, and looked savage, dangerous and magnificent. Feeling her breath quickening and her heart fluttering, she averted her gaze. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her, but seeing him like this, after watching him fight so fearlessly and witnessing the extent of his genius…

That breath-taking, seamless plan. 

All that energy inside of her was because of him, and she felt conflicted. She frowned, and mulishly set to work on the buckles that bound his clothes together, her mind set into the task instead of thinking about how good he looked covered in the blood of her people. The blood of his enemies. Gwyn imagined what would be to cut them all down like a woodsman with a log. It was a strange feeling and felt incredibly wrong to be made to feel like that by the enemy of her people. Gwyn decided to concentrate again in his clothes, and if her hands lingered a little bit, and she took a little bit more of time with the bindings that she should, well. That was between god and her. 

Gwyn wasn’t prepared at all for what followed. She learnt three new things in quick succession that very moment. Number one, a shirtless Ivar was a very handsome Ivar, with strong arms and chest, Gwyn could even count his abdominal muscles. Number two, Ivar had drawings on his skin, black lines that swirled along his arms and chest in shapes that Gwyn couldn’t make out, busy as she was trying not to stare like a fool, and the girl found herself with the urgent need of tracing the lines with her fingers and hear Ivar talk about what they meant. Number three. She really really wanted to trace those black lines with her tongue and lick the blood from his face, and the urge was so strong that took her by surprise. There was something absolutely wrong with her. Very wrong. Incredibly wrong. 

She needed to confess all her sins, and repent, and do penitence. She now understood the dangers of the flesh like never before. He was a demon incarnated. He was tempting her, he was… Gwyn tried not to hyperventilate while she quickly put all his dirty clothes together and turned around and went leave them on the bed. 

She should have left the room altogether; she could have run all the way to her sister’s room and stayed there for the rest of the evening. All of this would become a memory that they both would remember in the dark of the night, when they were feeling lonely. 

She would remember how his embrace had felt that one lonely night, and how it could have been with enough light to make out his tattoos. She would remember the blood covering him, and the fire that had coursed through her veins for one bright, shining moment.

He would remember the smell of her hair, the softness of her skin, and the feeling of her hands on his body as she took off his clothes. And Ivar would thirst for her touch. And Ivar would thirst for her embrace. And he would bitterly accept that cripples don’t get to be loved, or treated gently, and always remember her. She would be a world of what if’s for him, to explore late at night when he could not sleep. What if he had been whole, what if he had been worthy, what if he had been more like his uncle or his brothers, taking whatever he wanted. 

But Gwyn was weak, and she stayed, not knowing exactly why. Hungry for something she couldn’t describe or identify.

Ivar saw the blush extending through her cheeks until it covered her whole face. She only got that red when she was terribly mad about something, or when Ubbe got too close. But she didn’t snap at him or snarled. She kept her face blank, and dutifully help him disrobe. He wondered if he had done something to upset her. Maybe it was the fact that he was covered in saxon’s blood. Her eyes lingered on the tattoos on his chest, and the touch of her hands as they took away his clothes set his skin on fire. He could see her looking at him and he wasn’t sure what was in her eyes. Ivar felt the urgent need to push her a little bit more. To try and make her reach the limit and show her true self again to him. He didn’t like what he was seeing. 

So controlled, so tame. 

It seemed fake. It felt like a punishment. The moment she left with his vest and shirt, he crawled to the side of the bathtub and promptly began to remove his breeches. He remembered the face of Margrete, clear as day, the fright and barely concealed disgust when she saw him. If the sight of his legs didn’t shock her into coming back to herself, Ivar didn’t know what else to do.

“I need help to get in” he said to her, carefully arranging his face into the most pitiful of expressions. The one that he used when he wanted people to see him as a poor invalid cripple in need of help. 

Gwyn nearly swallowed her tongue and averted her gaze, though her traitorous eyes kept trying to fix their stare in his naked form. She couldn’t help it, he was the first man she had ever seen bared for the world to see. Gwyn felt the beast the battle had awoken inside of her roar back to life, answering the unspoken challenge. He was toying with her. Fine. No matter what, Gwyn thought, she wouldn’t be the first to back off. She felt another surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She felt far too warm, sweaty, and absolutely parched. She wanted action, to run, to fight, wanted to defuse this energy, wanted something she couldn’t name and that was driving her insane. She squared up, braced herself, and grabbed one of the chairs, loudly dragging it to the tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I get some comments to read on my way to the mountains for some good r&r and hopefully some writting??
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you liked the story so far, we are aproaching the saucy bits, I promise
> 
>  
> 
> Love you all to pieces
> 
> Luna
> 
> (Those comments are so nice, I swear every time I read them I keep smiling the whole day)
> 
> Tried to make this one and the next a little bit longer than usual for belcher (thanks for the ultralovely comment <3)


	13. Bath

Ivar jumped a little bit at her actions. She was frowning and seemed angry at him. Maybe he had gone too far. He was about to tell her he would manage to get into the tub on his own, no problem, she could go do something else, just stop looking at him like that if you please, when he found himself being looked down by what it seemed like a very furious Gwyn. He gulped. If they found him drowned in his own bath, he would have brought it upon himself. 

Ivar would never admit he yelped. But he did, as soon as he felt her arms closing around his chest and pulling. For a moment, Ivar thought of her ribs, and flinched, guilty, knowing they must be bothering her, but soon the guilt became something else when he felt just how strong his Valkyrie was. She lifted him to the chair like he weighted nothing, and then, with some manoeuvring and after Ivar put his arms around her neck, blushing furiously, she bent her knees and straightened up, carrying Ivar in her arms like a maiden. The Viking couldn’t not help but hide his smirk in her neck. She was at least a head shorter than he was, they must look truly ridiculous. And yet he felt happier that he had been in a long time. Her smell surrounded and soothed him, and her warmth was a pleasant contrast with the coldness of the room. He could feel her flesh against his, the caress of the fabric of her clothes leaving goose bumps on his bare skin. 

It was over far too quickly for Ivar’s taste. 

She gently manoeuvred him into the bathtub, never minding the water that soaked her shirt. Ivar didn’t move, speechless. He had imagined that she would fetch a guard or his brothers, or maybe just offer him a shoulder to lean against. Maybe even help him up with an arm around his waist. He wasn’t expecting to be picked up like he weighted no more than a feather by someone who was supposed to have several cracked ribs and a splintered finger that had been considered barely cured a few days ago. He sat there, gaping, as he watched her looking around and bringing the sponge, the oils, the soap and a towel, and gently laying them by the side of the tub. He was… he couldn’t understand her, and maybe that was part of her allure. He had always been pretty good at reading people, and so, the ones that surprised him always were few and dear to him. 

Also she was strong enough to lift him up with her bare hands. 

Odin’s eye and both his ravens, what he would give to watch her fight for real.

“Ivar?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course, my Valkyrie, Why do you ask?”

“I asked you twice if you needed something else and you just sat there, it was kind of worrying” Ivar felt himself blush. She didn’t seem affected at all. The Viking wondered how much it would take her to snap. 

Of course that, Ivar, being Ivar, decided to test her. 

“Would you help me wash my back? My muscles are quite stiff… from battle” To his surprise, she nodded, grabbed the sponge, submerged it in the soapy water, and started gently cleaning his back. 

Well, if she kept that up, Ivar thought with a grimace, he wouldn’t be lying about stiff muscles for long. 

Gwyn wanted to smash her own head against a wall. What was she doing? But she couldn’t stop. How far would they take it only to prove they weren’t the first to give up? But she couldn’t say she wasn’t enjoying herself. The butcher’s son that she had shared a passionate kiss during the last harvest festival had been fit, but he had been no warrior, power stretched in every muscle. She took the chance to carefully trace the drawings upon his skin. What did they mean? Gwyn was fascinated by them. With every stroke the water washed away the grime of battle, the sweat and some blood that had soaked through his clothes. 

He was handsome. 

He was a monster. He was covered in the blood of her countrymen.

He was a genius. 

He had killed many, would kill even more. She wanted to be covered in blood too.

Perhaps that was the thought that most upset her. That during her peaceful life in York, helping out in his father’s shop spinning yard and weaving fabric, she had ignored there was a part of herself hungering for adventure, for action, for violence. A part of her that now wanted more than anything to throw herself into the battlefield, to pitch herself against warriors trained and best them. She craved blood. She wanted to win. To watch as the world burns at her feet. That scared her more than anything she could think of, even more than the promise of hell and eternal damnation. 

It came the tense, awkward moment in which Ivar’s back was as clean as it could get, and Gwyn was left kneeling awkwardly behind him, not knowing very well what to do. Lucky for both, Ivar’s brain decided to begin to work again that very moment. 

“Would you bring me a drink, my Valkyrie? I’m parched” Gwyn took the petition like the salvation it was and jumped to fetch some mead “bring a cup for yourself if you wish, and food too”

She filled a plate, took a pitcher full and two cups, trying her best not to look at Ivar’s naked body, or at least what she could see, wet and tempting, and failed miserably. What was with those heathens that turned her into a beast, first craving blood and revenge, then craving flesh. Soon she would have forgotten all Christian duties and would be like them, killing and lusting with no other care for her immortal soul. 

She was frowning again. And obeying. Ivar nearly cursed. Her touch had riled him up, his patience was wearing thin, and in his veins the battle lust still reigned supreme. He just wanted to know why she was being so… unlike her. Only that. Of the rest… he would take care, somehow, on his own.

“You keep calling me that”

“What?” That…. That wasn’t what Ivar expected.

“Valkyrie. You keep calling me that, but I don’t know what it means” The ‘I don’t know if I should punch you for calling me that’ was kind of implicit in her tone, and Ivar shuddered, if it was from pleasure or fear he did not know. Maybe it was both. 

“Valkyries are the guardians of Valhalla. They are great warriors that ride through the battlefields, taking the soldiers with them, back to Odin’s halls” Ivar said, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth and washing it down with some mead. He frowned “Why are you sitting behind me? Come here Gwyn”

Gwyn clenched her jaw. She had gone behind him for one simple reason. That way, she couldn’t see his chest, or his face, or was tempted in any way to try and peek into the water that filled the tub. But then again, she couldn’t tell Ivar. Knowing him, he would use it against her, prickling and prodding until she stabbed him or worse. He was childish like that. Gwyn promised herself he would not know how whatever evil spirit that was clouding her mind made her feel in his presence. She sat in front of him, proud like a queen, stubbornly looking at some point between his very blue alluring eyes and his kissable lips. And pointedly making the effort of not thinking about any of those things. 

“Warriors?”

“Warrior maidens. They guard Valhalla, resurrect the men…” he stopped himself. How was he supposed to tell her about them if she didn’t know a thing about all the rest? 

“Among our people, we tell the tale of a great battle, the Ragnarök, and in the outcome of that battle lays the fate of all life. To prepare for that moment, Odin All-father sends the warrior maidens of Valhalla, the Valkyries, to search the battlefields of our world for those men that fought well and died in battle. They take them to the golden hall, to feast and train until time comes for them to fight again at Odin’s side. They train together, and those slain during the day are brought back to life by the Valkyries, so they can join the feast and train once more with their comrades. My father awaits us in Valhalla”

“I’m not a Valkyrie” said Gwyn, blushing. He thought he was… one of those? What did he call them? Warrior maidens? They sounded like angels, lifting souls to heaven. He thought she was an angel? A heathen angel but… angel, nonetheless.

Certainly, it was quite a lovely comparison… Gwyn felt herself blush furiously and prayed it subsided before he noticed. How come this heathen had uninvitedly payed her the best compliment she had ever received? He looked at her with those big blue eyes, clearly ignorant of what he just had said. 

For him, it was of no importance. The sky was blue, the grass green, and Gwyn was the most magnificent creature he had ever encountered, worthy of such a fierce title. 

“But you are, Gwyn, you are. You didn’t recognize the signs because your Christian god wants you to be meek and mild, kneeling at some man’s feet like the trophy of a raid. I saw it the moment we met. I saw you for what you are” He raised a hand to touch her face. His fingers were cold and wet, his eyes sincere. The raw emotion in his expression was devastating.

The worst part is that Gwyn knew he was right. She would never admit the sensation of being buried alive, trapped in a stony prison meant to hold her forever, filling a role that was too tight for her, ill fitting. She had struggled with it all her life. First being a tomboy, then deviating from the ideal future wife. That’s why she had remained unmarried for so long. Her parents had tolerated her oddness for they love they bore her, but not anymore. All it took was a couple of bad years, and they had to start looking for a future husband for her. The mere thought of Eldrich made her stomach hurt. She had been granted more liberty to speak her mind, give in to her impulses and snarl back at the men during her time as a slave than she had as a free woman. 

Her eyes met his, soft, vulnerable, raw. Something inside of Ivar marvelled at the vision before him. This proud strong woman lowering her shield and letting him peek inside her soul. He felt like he should thank the gods for the privilege. He felt so lucky, that if she had asked him for his heart that instant, he would have happily ripped it from his chest with his bare hands and gave it to her. He took a secret delight in caressing her cheek, carefully pushing a wild strand of hair behind her ear. His breath caught in his throat when she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes and sighing. It lasted a second, but it quickened his heart inside his chest until he could feel each pulsation echoing through his body. 

“I… We could help you. I want to help you. I want you to fight with me. With us. I… We will train you. Axe, sword, spear, shield. You could be a great shieldmaiden, Gwyn. Come to the training grounds, and soon they will sing songs about you. I know it. I saved you because of it. You are not one of those Christian lambs. You weren’t made to follow their weak Christian god. Our gods made you with Viking iron, you belong with us.”

She gasped at his bold words. He was leaning at the edge of the tub, both so close, the setting so intimate, the fading day and the candlelight only made his eyes shine brighter, bluer, and they had bewitched Gwyn in a way she could not escape. He was the devil. She was sure of it. The devil… with his soft alluring voice, with his promises of freedom, of blood, of violence. She had felt lighter, happier with an axe in her hand than she had ever felt before. His words were dangerous, they gave her hope, they made her wonder. How would a sword feel? The rattle of a blade as it connected with her shield. The fury and cries of the battlefield… Gwyn closed her eyes and tried to make her racing heart behave. She felt as if she could not breath. Her skin was too tight, tingly. Her senses were on high alert and all she could focus on; all she could feel was Ivar. Ivar before her, looking at her with those blue eyes full of passion. Ivar, with his velvet voice. Ivar, with his soft touch. She had closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she was leaning over the edge of the bathtub, their faces dangerously close, his hand still resting against her cheek. 

Ivar couldn’t move. If this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake. He stayed still, heart beating wildly in his chest as she leaned in, eyes closed, until they were face to face, their breaths mingling together. He swallowed. Was she going to kiss him? Was she? For real? Ivar was dead. He got to be. She had drowned him and now he was hallucinating as he died at the bottom of the tub. 

Her eyes snapped open, and he could pinpoint the exact moment she realised the situation they were in, because her eyes went big as saucers and she gasped, a small sound escaping her as she gaped like a fish out of water. Soon the spell broke, and she was in her original position, leaving Ivar’s hand hanging in the air, extended towards her like a supplicant. She cleared her throat. He dropped his hand into the water. 

“The water must be cold by now. Come, cover yourself with this. I left some clothes on the bed, I will help you there” She didn’t even let him answer. She had thrown a cloth over him, which he hurriedly fastened around his hips, and soon she had plunged her arms into the water, grabbed him firmly, and was pulling him out of the tub. Ivar shivered at her actions. Something about the fact that such a tiny woman had such strength in her made him feel… excited. What kind of person was that strong?

“You are quite strong” he blurted, and as soon as he said it, he regretted it. He wasn’t like his brothers, easily paying compliments to the girls that flirted with them. Christian girls were supposed to be mild mannered and weak, taking care of their men with food and warmth, or something like that. What kind of compliment was calling her strong when she had been raised not to be anything more than a weak thing to be protected? He frowned. Way to go.

“My father weaved cloth from wool here. It was a small shop. My mother and I helped carrying the wool. It helps building your strength” 

“So, Do I weight less than a sack of wool or more?” Ivar chuckled.

“It’s not the same. At the beginning I couldn’t carry a sack on my own or lift the wool from the tub once it had soaked in the dyes. Now…. Before, I could carry sacks that would need to men to lift them”

“Did you like it? The weaving and… such” asked Ivar, curious. She hadn’t spoken of her life before they arrived, not even with her sister. Well, she hadn’t spoke that much to any of them. This might be the longest conversation they had ever had with both sides taking part on it. 

“I liked the way I could weave any pattern. My father always got the brightest colours. Once, we even had purple. It was for a gift for king Ecbert, I think, from one bishop or another. I was a child, but once we were done dying the wool for the cloth, father used the spare to dye more wool and we had purple flowers sewed in our dressed that summer”

Ivar missed the touch as soon as she left him in the bed, right by his spare clothes. He was glad he had covered himself so quickly before. His cock had twitched in interest, and he didn’t want to risk her seeing him. Either he got an erection and she left, angry, after or before she castrated him, or his bloody cock would give it a try before failing miserably so she could see what a pathetic creature he was. She turned to leave, but Ivar couldn’t bear to let her go yet. Still, he strived to find something to say, something that didn’t sound pathetic or desperate. 

“See you at the feast?” She turned, nodded, and left. Ivar groaned and facepalmed so hard he had surely left a mark. Gods help him. He was a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos?? pretty pretty please??
> 
> I love to read you and it makes me smile and feel all warm inside and helps me write faster..... <3
> 
> PDT/ the mountains were awesome and I was able to see the stars!!!
> 
> XOXOXOXOXOX
> 
> Love you all to pieces 
> 
> Luna


	14. The feast

Gwyn roared as soon as she was far enough from his rooms. Until she could feel her throat ache because of the abuse. No one noticed her screams, they were all at the party. 

 

She was clearly going crazy.

Nutters. 

Clearly, she needed to stop. Or be stopped, or… something. 

“What happened?” Aoife jumped in her bed when her sister entered the room in such a hurry. The teen was up and out of the bed in seconds, already pulling up the breeches she had taken to wear under her dress. 

“Nothing, nothing at all. Go back to sleep”

“You don’t sleep here very often” Gwyn froze. She knew very well that her sister was referring to the fact that Ivar liked to use her as a teddy bear, and whined a lot every time Gwyn spent the night away. “Did they do something? Tell me” Damn, she forgot her sister knew her better than anyone. Aoife put a hand on her shoulder, lending her strength. Gwyn sat on the bed, and soon Aoife had curled around her like a kitten, sending warmth and love through her touch into Gwyn’s tired body. 

“It’s complicated Aoife”

“You always say that. Then again, you must be about the only saxon woman who hasn’t been forced yet”

“Sorry”

“Don’t be Gwyn, I would be much sadder if I had to live knowing you went through all… that too”

“So everyone keeps telling me. I…”

“Yes? And don’t tell me you are sorry again!”

“He wants to train me as a warrior. That’s why he has been protecting me. He thinks I could be a good one. He wants me to stay as one of them” Aoife gasped, and her grip on Gwyn’s flesh grew painful, like her sister was expecting Ivar to burst through the door and take Gwyn away forever. 

“Don’t believe him Gwyn, they are not to be trusted. They are heathens… This is Ivar the Boneless we are talking about. He is sick in the head. You saw what he did. He fought dishonourably, not at all like a true warrior, with traps and… and…”

“I think it was brilliant” Gwyn whispered guiltily into Aoife’s hair. 

“It was a filthy trick! He knew he wouldn’t have been a match for good Christian soldiers in a fair fight…” Gwyn cut her sister before she could work herself up into a rage.

“His brothers approached me. They want me to convince Ivar to let them establish a settlement, here in Wessex” Aoife gasped and began trembling.

“No, no! How can they think they could get away with that?! No. They cannot stay! Gwyn, what are we going to do? We cannot let them do it!”

“I don’t think Ivar wants to settle here, and he has a lot of power in the army. They won two of the major battles thanks to him. They respect him. If he asks them to fight instead of farming, they will” Gwyn had been around the brothers long enough that she had a fairly good idea of their personalities and the relationship between them. 

She understood enough of their language that she had come to discover a lot of things about the Great Heathen Army. They respected Hvitserk as a great warrior, Ubbe held even more respect as he was the oldest now that the other brother, Bjorn Ironside, had sailed away. But Ivar? Ivar, she had noticed, basked in their praise, which meant that he hadn’t had much of that, either because he was the youngest of the siblings or because his legs were useless. But that had changed the moment they had arrived at Wessex. They all whispered in awe of the cripple who couldn’t walk but rode in his chariot through the battlefield like he had wings. Of the brilliant strategist that won them battles left and right. 

From today onwards, she knew, they would whisper of the man that had propped himself against a wall, legs useless, and had challenged a whole army to come and kill him. 

And he had held them at bay.

He had held them at bay. 

They laid together, Aoife quietly crying for her hopes of rescue, now gone, and Gwyn lost in thoughts, trying to take a decision. If she accepted Ivar’s offer, there was not knowing what would happen. If she said no, they might continue just like they were, until they either grew tired of her or they sailed away, only to sell them to some other master for the profit. Gwyn had lost most of her hopes for rescue. If all the saxon’s had fought like the warrior she had seen… flowing through the battlefield, cutting a path through Ivar’s army like he was cutting through butter… maybe then, she would have hope. The time for the feast arrived, and Gwyn… Gwyn didn’t know what to say to Ivar. She quite despaired over her answer while she bid goodnight to her sister, while she walked the familiar corridors to the great hall, while she climbed the steps of the dais to sit at Ivar’s side. He was joking and smiling, drinking from a horn and spilling mead everywhere, and he turned to look at her with such hopeful eyes that Gwyn couldn’t even invent an excuse or try to buy more time. 

“I don’t know what to do” she said as she sat down and looked at him quite lost. She was flushed and sweating. Ivar blinked twice, staring. She was even wearing a dress. A deep blue thing he hadn’t seen on her in weeks, ever since he gave her some breeches. Ivar looked at her bared clavicles and blushed. He hoped they thought it was the mead. The dress had tiny flowers in a pale blue around the neck and the hem of the long sleeves. Ivar fixed his gaze on them before he realized she might think he was ogling her chest. Blushing even harder, he settled for looking at her cute little nose. 

“About what, my Valkyrie?” Ivar felt a deep pride when she blushed at the name. 

“You. Your offer. I… I don’t know. It’s not proper. It’s not… Christian” Gwyn was blurting all those words and she could not stop, for some reason. She really hoped no one remembered them in the morning. Ivar smiled, one of those that made him look like some kind of predator animal and offered her his hand. Gwyn looked at it, then at his face, and took it reluctantly. He was warm, and the careful circles he rubbed on the skin of her wrist with his thumb soothed her and sent a pleasant tingle up her arm.

“My Valkyrie. We both know, that you are not a Christian. Now, let’s eat and drink, and be merry, so we can celebrate and talk free of any burdens. I will sooth your worries and make see some reason. You will see” 

They sat together in silence as they chewed on their food. Well, Gwyn was silent. Ivar was been loud, chewing with his mouth open, throwing food at his siblings or other warriors as they praised each other for the victory. All around the hall there were doing the same, some warriors, men and women alike, sometimes one would even get up to enact some of the most important parts of their tales. Gwyn ate more than she could have imagined, but they had gone all out in the feast, and she was hungry.

“Why do you say it’s not Christian to fight? We fought Christians today” Ivar asked, and she was so surprised by his question she nearly spat the ale she had been sipping. 

“They were men”

“So? It is true we saw no women among your fighters. Maybe that’s why they lost. There were so few of them…”

“It’s forbidden. If you are a woman, you weave, and milk, and all the womanly chores. If there is war, you must sit at home and take care of it. You don’t… fight” Ivar huffed, clearly annoyed.

“And, how are you supposed to take care of the house if you don’t know how to defend it?” he said, voice full of disdain “My grandmother was the most famous shieldmaiden in the world. She would not have been so if she had been a Christian then. I pity you all, captives in your homes, chained to your… womanly chores”

“And I pity us now, captives of your army, detained in our own home, chained to the beds of your men!” she spat, fire in her eyes and poison coating her words. Ivar smiled, and it was a candid smile, bright and sweet. Gwyn was shocked by how tender it was. He caressed her cheek, and chuckled.

“There it is the Valkyrie I like so much…” he said and took a large drink of mead. Gwyn blushed bright red and slapped his hand away. He laughed. The crowd roared. She ignored them both.

“You would offer me my freedom, if I chose to fight” She said carefully, and there was something in her tone that made Ivar shiver. It was a sensation akin of having a pack of wolves studying you, circling around in the forest, ready to strike. He smiled. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Yes, just like I told you”

“Would you offer it to any other Christian woman that chose to do so?” Ivar laughed. He knew she was going to try something. He also knew that there weren’t other Christians like her. 

“Maybe” Gwyn frowned, and Ivar delighted in watching her emotions play on her face. She was rearing up for another attack. He must teach her to keep a straight expression. She betrayed her thoughts without even knowing it. 

“Maybe?”

“Well, how many would you think will accept? Humm? You said it yourself, it’s not proper”

“Then why did you even ask me? If you already think I will say no?”

“Because you are not a proper Christian girl” Ivar’s smile made her shiver, and Gwyn frowned, angry at herself. Ivar was her enemy. All of them were her enemies. She shouldn’t forget it just because they were civilized towards her. She only had to look around at the miserable girls tending the tables. 

“What would you know about being proper?” Gwyn mumbled, but Ivar only laughed and laughed and laughed, to happy and drunk to even care about snapping right back at her. Gwyn stayed silent the rest of the feast, which continued well until the wee hours of the morning. Not that she stayed. She was thinking. Plotting, really. She had to convince Eldrida and Aoife right away. Eldrida would likely accept, even if it was only to beat the hell out of some of the men who had killed her husband and son, her family, and had been abusing her for weeks. Months. God be merciful. It had been months already. 

Aoife had been raised for marriage. Gwyn knew this. Just as her average looks and general lack of grace and manners had saved her from marriage for long years, Aoife, pretty, graceful Aoife had been indoctrinated with the stone engraved rules of what made a good Christian wife. She had known, and it had pained her, but such was the ways of life. Wives were all they were meant to be, once upon a time, and it had been the only way her sister would have secured a comfortable life away from hunger or danger. And yet, there they were, captive and at the mercy of Ivar’s whims. It would take time, just as it took time to bring Aoife out of her shell after her rescue, to reassure her that she was not ruined, not broken, and that all would be well. Maybe, holding a sword would do for her sister what it did for Gwyn. They were of the same blood after all. 

 

With Eldrida and Aoife free, maybe other would accept. Their freedom would come not by Ivar’s mercy, but from the strength the heathens would give them. Once they knew how to defend themselves, how to fight in the shield wall… well. 

They could escape. 

Or not.

Their women were free to travel with their men. Free to fight by their side and win glory and loot for themselves. If it was so, and they could get rich without a man… they wouldn’t be forced into marriage, right? Maybe, there was a place for them in here. This new possibility had just occurred to Gwyn and left her with much to ponder. So much, that she barely noticed when the thralls filled the hall and the men became more savage in their drunkenness. Right until a frightened cry snapped her out of it. Gwyn was up in a moment, holding a knife she didn’t remember snatching from the table. She growled like a beast. They all had had their chance to fight, and she was still longing for blood and violence. She wasn’t to be tested. Not today. The man froze with his arms around the poor frightened girl, who shivered in his lap. He looked at her once, then at Ivar’s hand, holding her back by her wrist, his grip like iron. Silence descended upon the hall, as everyone held their breaths, watching the slave, their king, and the man. 

Ivar dragged her back into the chair by sheer strength, and tugged her close, as to whisper in her ear.

“Let it be Valkyrie, it will do no good if you take their reward away. You cannot fight them all”

Gwyn opened her mouth to refute him. She could fight them. She wanted to. For the girl. For her sister and her cousin, and for herself. For that part of herself that wanted to rake a burning path of bloody corpses through the world until all the rage festering inside of her was emptied and she felt peace, at last. The rage at being denied for her sex, denied her freedom, denied her dreams of visiting far away places, of having adventures. Of climbing trees or swimming in the river, for god’s sake. The rage of being spared only because she was considered plain, of Aoife being turned into a mindless pawn, of the deal they had made to sell Gwyn away for the sake of money and connections. The rage at not being the master of her own destiny. 

Ivar saw the look in her face and shivered. He knew he had erred with his words as soon as he spoke them. He should have known by now, that if push came to shove, Gwyn would push them right back and off a cliff if she could. He was still close to her, his lips so close to her ears, that every breath he drew moved the hair that fell in shiny waves past her shoulders. He swallowed. He had to distract her before she decided that taking a bunch of drunken warriors on a fight was a good idea. Ivar might have been a little bit drunk himself. Later he would maintain it was only to see the look in Ubbe’s face as he nuzzled her neck and pecked the exact spot were jaw meets neck. As soon as she felt him, Gwyn gasped, and Ivar smirked. Ubbe was watching them with eyes as big as saucers, but that didn’t even matter, for Gwyn was now almost panting, her breath smelling of ale and roasted meat warming his face in soft puffs. He hid his smile against he neck, and left himself put his arms around her, even if that meant leaning dangerously in his own chair. She froze immediately. Ivar awaited for the blows that never came. 

“I think, my Valkyrie, that you will not like this part at all, and though your magnificent ball cutting skills have surely kept them at bay most of the night, there is too much ale in them now to give a damn or listen to anyone. Let’s go to bed now, before you do something, we will both regret”

Gwyn stared, at a loss. Ivar giggled and sunk his hand in her hair, relishing in the soft strands. 

“Carry me Valkyrie” He even winked “Do you think you can do it? Or maybe I should have one of the guards do it”

Ivar was drunk for sure; he couldn’t deny it any longer. But he could not help but want more than anything that they all saw her carrying him away in her arms. Like a cripple? Maybe. Like the warrior that cannot wait to ravish a maid? Surely. Like the sacrificial victim to end the lust of a beast after the battle fever had taken over? Ivar could only dream. 

He also wanted to see Ubbe’s face. No one had heard them speak. To them, it would look like Ivar was whispering in his thrall’s ear, the same thrall that had been sleeping in his rooms, in his bed, for months now, and then the girl taking him away. In the end, the fact that everyone thought they were fucking was even more relevant as the fact that they hadn’t even kissed yet. She was his, in the eyes of his people, and he felt petty after watching his brothers making eyes at her from across the table all night.

Ivar smile became even wider when, after pushing him away, she stood up, rolled her shoulders, and simply hoisted him over her shoulder, carrying him like one might carry a sack and giving him an excellent view of her rear and her swaying skirts. He spared one look for Ubbe, tight lipped, one hand holding tightly onto his horn full of mead and the other balled up in a fist. Then Ivar turned to the crowd, winked, and screamed.

“Well lass, if you cannot wait for me to get up, then have it your way!” and then he slapped her ass. It was a show for the benefit of his reputation, and he knew there would be consequences as soon as Gwyn’s hands were free. Ivar froze as soon as they left the hall, waiting for her response. 

The slap that shook his ass stung, and he had to bite his lips to keep the curse and the moan that laid entwined in his throat from escaping. He felt his cock twitching. Ivar felt like growling but did not dare provoque Gwyn any further. He was mad at himself. First, he couldn’t get it up no matter what Margrete had tried and now he couldn’t stop getting hard when it was most embarrassing and less convenient for him. There was an awkward silence as Gwyn walked the lonely halls and Ivar looked at her feet as he dangled from her shoulder. Silence that was broken when Gwyn kicked the door to their bedchamber open without missing a stride, and then swiftly kicked it shut with a loud bang. Ivar would have praised the display out loud, if not for the way she unceremoniously flexed her knees and threw him onto the bed, where he landed on his back and bounced a couple of times. The shock in his face was the counterpart of Gwyn’s calmly demeanour.

She acted like she did that every day, shaking invisible dust from her hands with a loud clap, smoothing down her gown and sighing. Ivar giggled at her actions, head dizzy from the ale and the sudden, unexpected tumble. His laugher died in his throat when he saw the moisture on her lips. She must have licked them while she was carrying him. His thoughts got side-tracked by the picture of her pink tongue and her lovely lips. Her tongue. Licking her mouth. Or his mouth. Or…

Gwyn clapped her hands right in front of Ivar’s face, who had been looking at her with unfocused eyes and blushing cheeks for a long spell now, and a part of her enjoyed the way he shook and flinched at the sound. She had been trying to ask him something four times already, and he had been utterly uncooperative, the fricking sod. Taking a deep breath, she shooed him away, and promptly laid herself on her usual spot in their bed. 

Ivar scooted back so fast that he almost fell from the bed, and mentally cursed himself. If he was so eager to please her that he made a fool of himself in front of Gwyn, she will think him an idiot, not a possible suitor. He carefully rearranged himself so he was stylishly sprawled on his side of the bed, facing her. Or at least he hoped he looked stylish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you linking the story so far??
> 
> Your comments make my day, I love to re-read them while I write. You are all amazing and I love you lots
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> xoxoxoxoxoxo
> 
> Luna


	15. Bed

Ivar did not know what to do. Truly he was at a loss. He only hopped that the burning sensation on his face didn’t mean he was blushing something fierce. He was. 

Gwyn curled on her side of the bed and made herself comfortable, eyes fixed on the viking’s very red face. She wondered if he had had a little too much ale at the feast. Maybe it wasn’t the best moment to ask he questions after all. She sighed. It would have to wait until morning, or the afternoon, really, if the subsequent hangover was too bad. Gwyn reached to blow out the candles by the bed when she was stopped by Ivar’s hand. He had incorporated and was looking at her with big pleading eyes, blue and slightly watered. She carefully moved back into the bed. 

Ivar felt his heart pace quickening when her actions brought her even closer to him. She might be lying on her side of the bed, but now he was stretched along it, cornering her. Still with her arm in his hands, he gently tugged at her, until they both laid face to face in the centre of the bed, close enough to feel each other’s warmth. He never let go of her, gently encircling her wrist, basking in the heat that he could feel in his hand. 

“You had questions for me, right?” That he didn’t quite catch what she asked him before didn’t mean he didn’t notice her asking. Just that he wasn’t paying attention. 

Close.

Too close.

Blue.

Warm.

Gwyn felt herself getting redder by the minute. She tried to keep her face neutral while trying to remember what the question had been. Things would be way easier if she couldn’t smell him or feel how warm and close he was, if she didn’t know exactly what was hiding under his clothes. The urge of pealing his shirt away and press herself flushed against his chest grew, but Gwyn controlled herself, only the small hitched breath and the badly repressed gasp betrayed her otherwise stony demeanour. 

“What does a northern woman do?” she blurted out. Too ashamed to look at him in the eyes after practically admitting she was thinking about his offer, she settled at looking at her lips. Which proved to be a very bad idea as soon as he began to talk and she had to listen to his velvety voice while looking at those lips moving. 

“Anything she wants. But I feel like you are not asking that. Woman are free to do as they please, to tend to the farm, and their family, to go raiding and fight”

“No, not that, you already said that… But, what about a woman alone? Like me? What would…” she sighed, frustrated. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to begin talking again. “Would I have to marry? Would I be placed under some man’s care? You said thing were different. Different how?”

Ivar felt the shy vulnerability shown by her words like a physical blow. He reached out and gently, carefully caressed the back of her hand.

“You wouldn’t be alone, Valkyrie. I could be with you, if you want” Her shocked face had Ivar grimacing. Like she would want to be by his side, the lesser crippled brother. He might as well have scared her away for good, with his big mouth. She just asked him if she would have to be tied down to a man, and there was he, practically throwing himself at her “Ubbe too, of course… I meant the sons of Ragnar would be with you, having your back. In case you were worried” 

There was a silence that lasted enough to make it uncomfortable enough that Ivar did what he best did when he was feeling awkward. Talk. 

“You could have your own business. A wool business. Would you like that? I… Erh… We… would help you get some sheep, give them to you. If you fight for us… well.. I… We… I know you will be great, my Valkyrie. I know you will get many prizes and come back to our home rich as a queen. You could have many thralls waiting on you while you train until next raiding season comes. I would like to take you home… with me. I mean Us. The Army….”

Gwyn stopped him before he ran out of air or had an aneurism, whatever happened first. Clearly he was being truthful while speaking of what freedoms the northener’s women enjoyed. But she needed to know. She needed to be sure. She could see Eldrich’s face clear as day. She shuddered. 

“So, no husband? No Master? Just… freedom? You would see me equal to men, in your home? My own house, my own business, my own decisions?” ‘Would I be truly free?’ she wanted to ask, but she bit her tongue. She was pushing boundaries, hopeful that their ways, which though savage, she was beginning to enjoy, extended enough to break the chains of duty that chained her to a dress, a home, and a husband she did not want. 

“Why would you want…” Ivar began to ask. The he stopped. She was asking about husbands because she was insinuating something or just curiosity? Was the awkward unnamed tension at his bath enough to make her see the connection between them? The possibilities? He squashed the fleeting hope in his chest. He remembered all too well his crippled legs, his inadequacy… He remembered Ubbe. Gods, he was beginning to resent Ubbe for taking her away, they hadn’t fucked yet. Ivar paled. What would he do if he lost his Valkyrie? The answer was right in front of him. In the determination in her eyes, the fire shinning bright in her soul. The gods have mercy on those who stand between her and her desires, for she would break them to pieces. He tried to swallow around the lump on his throat. 

“If you were to marry, your husband would not have more hold over you than the wind. You are free to divorce them if you wish so. Or take vengeance for their wronging without fear of punishment” he chuckled “not that it would mind to you if the law would punish you or not, hmmm?” Gwyn blushed so hard she thought her whole face must be aflame, and then she smiled, amused, her chuckle and the genuine happiness in her face blinding Ivar for a few precious moments. 

Time had passed, and they were already half asleep when Gwyn remembered her promise to Ubbe, of trying to talk to Ivar. She shook herself awake. 

“Ivar?” she whispered. Maybe he was already asleep. 

“Yes?” Gwyn was grateful for the darkness that surrounded them, so he could not see her smile. He sounded…. Adorable. Gwyn’s lips were already moving, and only sheer willpower stopped her from cooing at him. His hair must have been all mussed up, she thought, and suddenly she wanted to see how in looked. It must be all fluffy from the recent bath. She was moving forward before she even thought of it, her mind half asleep. She could feel the warmth of his body before her, his breath in his face. 

“Your brothers came after the battle. They want me to ask you something” she said. She wasn’t going to try and convince him to stay, but she could ask. She owed Ubbe’s kindness that much. 

“Uh? What did they do?” Ivar was now wide awake, mind going faster than light, a thousand different scenarios playing all at once. Did Hvitserk hurt her? She would have gutted him… Ubbe? Was she going to confess? He would kill them. If they had hurt her… If they had done something… 

The fury was eating him up alive like a forest fire. He blinked a few times and tried to keep his breathing even while he prepared to rise. But then she came forward, so deliciously close, and suddenly he could only focus on her silhouette in the moonlight. He inched forward too, and swallowed a gasp when their flesh touched. Their foreheads were pressed together, and Ivar laid there, musing if gently manoeuvring his legs so they would be flush against each other would break the spell they were in. 

 

“They want me to ask you to stablish a settlement here. To farm and live here. They need warriors to secure the lands” Oh, that. How stupid of them, to think he would change his mind only for her. No. He wanted glory. He wanted conquest. He wanted her on the battlefield, not in a field. Though the picture of Gwyn, in a farm, not so different from the one his own father had owned, with a few kids running around and her sword and shield hanging on the wall beside his own… No.

“I will not disband the army for them” The idea was ridiculous anyway. His crippled legs meant he was no use in a farm. Maybe with his chariot? He stilled. Gwyn moved her head. Oh. She nodded her assent.

 

“I figured that much”

 

“Yet you still asked me anyway” 

 

“Ubbe was kind to me” she responded sincerely “I owed him that much”

“Kind, hmmm, kinder than me?”

“No” she said, and Ivar gasped, feeling a hand brushing his shoulder and descending through his arm to tangle itself with his own. His skin covered in goosebumps. “He would have stopped me from killing anyone” 

“You haven’t killed anyone yet”

“I killed one of yours, the very first day” Ivar could see her shift, except now he wasn’t seeing anything, fixated as he was in the blackness where he was sure her face was, feeling her breath in his chin, barely stopping himself from trembling. 

“It was in combat. It doesn’t count” he manged to whisper, and it sounded more like a whimper to his ears than anything else. Stupid, he chastised himself. What a way to go, what a nice seduction trick. 

“Still counts for me” Gwyn whispered. She didn’t know what she was doing. Or why. Well. She did know why. She wanted him. It was… not a very rational part of her that did. Clearly, a visibly unstable Viking with a bloodlust to rival any demon and clear as day issues which included his love for killing, blood, and his tight grip in power and love for mind games was NOT a desirable match. And yet. 

And yet.

And yet Gwyn was bubbling inside, to tight for her own skin, assaulted in the dark by the images of him covered in blood and grime, the feeling of excitement she had felt watching the battle taking over her, devouring her. 

She wanted to devour him.

He was half asleep anyway.

She let go of his hand and caressed his arm up and down. Ivar was paralysed. He didn’t want to move for fear of waking up, but it was… she was… He bit down another whimper when she surrounded him with her arm and hugged him tightly against her. His cock, slowly but surely, was answering the attention by rising and Ivar closed his eyes and clenched his teeth at the feeling. Not a full erection, not completely limp, totally useless to him. 

“Ivar…” she whispered in the dark, and he trembled.

“Ivar…” she said, once more, and this time she was so close she could feel her eyelashes on his cheek as she whispered in his ear. 

“Ivar…” she practically moaned, as she pressed their bodies together. 

Ivar nearly swallowed his own tongue. Freyr! If there was a moment for his cock to respond, it was this!! There was a whimper, and then another, and Ivar realized that they were both trembling, both moaning, both willing, and soon he took her by the waist and rolled them so she was laying on top of him. There was a squeak as the sudden movement surprised her, and a grunt of pain when her legs collided with his, but soon Gwyn was moving again, and Ivar made a small noise of protest, suddenly going limp, dreading the disappearance of the warm body above him, for he was sure he had scared her away. 

When Gwyn straddled him instead of running away, Ivar was convinced his heart was going to pound his way out of his chest. She was still covering him, mindful not to lay all her weight on him and, and the sensation. It was wonderful. So warm, so… close. He didn’t dare move, laying flat against the bed, waiting.

“Ivar…” she whispered, and gently, her hair brushed against his skin, her lips touched his. He moaned, opening his mouth under the assault of her lips. This wasn’t the snivelling, cold kiss Margrete had gave him. This… this was warm. She was warm, and his lips tingled. Her tongue darted out of her mouth to lick at his lips, to explore his mouth. Ivar’s arms shot up and clung to her back for dear life while she kept kissing him, again, and again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Septeeember is heeereeeee and so it's the new chapter!!!!
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> Hope you like it, please, remember the kudo button (and leave a comment, if you feel like it, I LOVE to read your opinions)
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> Love you all TO PIECES
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> XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
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> Luna


	16. Ivar and Gwyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is graphic content ahead, our favourite main characters are going to have some wild acrobatic naughty times
> 
> You have been warned

Gwyn couldn’t remember the moment they fall asleep, tangled as they were, Ivar shirtless and Gwyn with the dress she had been wearing half off. She remembered waking up as the cold wind brought goosebumps to her skin. She took a few moments to watch him sleep, and to relish in the wonderful sensations of the morning. The light illuminating his face, the cold wind blowing in the room, the warmth that came from the places where their skin touched. She rose and blushed at the sensation of been so exposed in broad daylight. There was excitement, but mainly shame. 

Shame that she had allowed his big warm hands to unlace the bodice of her dress, to drag the wool off her chemise, of parting the delicate white fabric and baring her skin to his eye and touch. Shame that she had deviated so much from the teachings of her people that she would behave in such an immoral way. Shame that it had been with the head of the army that had killed her parents, enslaved her family and raped her sister.

She was about to grab a blanket when she felt observed. Ivar was awake, a small smile in his lips, his blue eyes roaming through her exposed skin. He made her tremble. But not with shame. The flame she thought extinguished by the regrets in her head roared to life once more. With a few tugs here and there, she dropped her clothes to the floor and went back to bed, laying down by his side and covering them with the blanket. He opened his mouth, but Gwyn covered it with hers, just like the night before. She didn’t want him to speak. She had enough with the raging chaos in her head. She needed him to be a rock in the mist of the storm. To ground her one kiss at a time while she tried to pull herself together once more. The fabric was coarse against her skin felt good, and she rubbed against him like a cat. He embraced her and let his hands roam freely over her body. Cupping her face, he kissed her one more time, sweetly, gently, and then smiled. It was a tiny smile, a frightened one, and his eyes were full of fear and concern. This was the man than looked at the face of death and roared a challenge, laughing as he bathed in the blood of his enemies. And… He was… Scared?

“My Valkyrie, my Valkyrie, tell me this is not goodbye, is it? Tell me you will stay, you will fight…please… I need to know” Ivar bared himself to her. Her kisses burned and her touch was bewitching. If she had asked him right, then and there for the blood in his veins he would cut himself open for her. In a way, he had already done that. He needed her. He wanted her. There mere thought that he would offer her freedom only to have her run away broke him. Ivar thought he would rage if that came to happen. That he would lash out like he had done before, in his childhood, with Margrete, with Sigurd. But something told him that she would break him even more that Floki’s absence ever did. If this is what he felt when Helga died… Now Ivar understood what he meant when he said there was nothing left for him in here. 

“No, Ivar, it’s not goodbye” she said, and suddenly she felt lighter. Freer. That was the point. She was free. She had meant to accept his offer from the very beginning. It was only her stubborn mind trying to rebel against the Northeners that kept her from accepting from the very first moment he offered. She wanted that life when she thought it only meant she would be able to fight. After last night’s conversation… She wanted that freedom. She wanted it. Now she was not a prisioner, or a slave. They were equal, and when before he would have been gaining the upper hand on her, somehow controlling her, this simple act was now nothing more than passion shared between equals. Because, prince or not, Gwyn didn’t see herself as any less. 

And she wanted him. Savage and vulnerable and mad and brilliant. There would be no gentle Ubbe with soft words and soft gestures for her. She had meditated about it during the feast. Faced the dark truths she didn’t want to acknowledge. She wanted him because she was him. Deep inside. Maybe she lacked his talent for warfare, but she felt she had found a fine mate for the savagery that made the core of this new Gwyn free from the chains of duty to her family, her folk or religion. Free from their expectations. She felt him flinch under her, she watched in awe how his expression transformed, and he seemed to brighten, appearing even more handsome than before. Gwyn didn’t really know how to…continue, but after having watched the Vikings for as long as she had, she expected Ivar to fill the gaps. 

Ivar was walking in a cloud. It was like a wonderful dream. Gwyn kept kissing him as she tore at his clothes, and he hastened to help her remove them. He didn’t even hesitate when it came to his breeches. She had seen his legs, even touched them. He trusted her to be resilient enough to look at his legs without cowering in disgust. They laid there, panting, Ivar with his pants down to the middle of his thighs, Gwyn naked as the day she was born, with the blanket she had draped around them hanging from her shoulders like a cape, none of them moved. Ivar, because he didn’t know how much of his touch would be welcome, ashamed as he was of his flaccid member. Gwyn, because it was the first time, she saw a cock in her entire life, and wasn’t very sure about what to do now that had one in front of her. Both waiting for the other one to make a move and growing more nervous with each passing moment. Ivar was beginning to regret going along with this and tried to reach for his pants, disappointed, when Gwyn exploded.

“Alright, you are not moving, and I don’t know what to do, and you are touching me, which feels nice, and you are staring at me, which is worrying at best. Is there something wrong with me?”

Ivar was floored. 

“Something…. Wrong? With you?!” he practically squeaked, his voice turning high pitched with surprise.

“Well” Gwyn sniffed, crossing her arms below her breasts and effectively distracting Ivar from the incredible thought that she thought she was the problem. “As soon as you saw me here naked, you kind of… stopped”

Ivar chuckled, and the flinched when Gwyn glared at him. He gently pushed her towards him and kissed her neck, his lips marking a path down her skin towards her nipple. Her gasps and moans were a balm for Ivar’s tortured pride. She was enjoying his attentions. He felt himself puff up like a peacock. She moved against him. Panting, trying to hold herself above him, bracketing his head with her arms. The feeling of his skin on hers drove her mad. 

“It is not you who has a problem, Gwyn” Ivar said as soon as his mouth was free again. “Many a maiden has run away from legs such as mine” he was bitter, and it showed in his voice.

Except that the maidens were so many, since there was only one, and hardly a maiden as it was, since Margrete had experience a plenty. 

“Well, I’m not running anywhere” she panted. Oh, she wanted him to put his lips on her nipples again. That felt nice. Or maybe a bite or two. That was… She moved against him out of instinct, trying to relieve the pressure and fire she felt between her legs. She wanted, yet she didn’t know exactly what. And he was been so slow about it! Righting herself up again, looking totally indecent with the glistening tail of spit trailing down her neck and chest and the red mark of the first love bites beginning to form, she boldly took his hand and put it on top of her mound. 

“And since I’m not running anywhere, you better teach me how to do something about this. It feels strange. Wet, and… and it even hurts, but… in a good way” she practically whispered the last part, face flaming red. Oh if any of her friends could see her now…. They would probably die of shock, and she from embarrassment! But she had made up her mind about it. She would fuck Ivar, even if she didn’t know exactly what to do. 

Ivar nearly died right then and there. Internally he cursed his own inexperience. In the outside… well. He did a very nice impression of a fish out of water, with the round eyes, and the gaping mouth. He made a noise that it was, most certainly, not a whimper, and gently caressed her cunt. She had put his hand in there! She even held him right above her by the wrist. Carefully, he slipped a finger between the folds and found she was telling the truth. She was wet!

Wet was good. Margrete hadn’t been wet. All his brothers had told him about how wet was good. Now… Now what? He tried to remember as he caressed her cunt with his fingers but couldn’t really recall what came next. He knew to just thrust his cock in would be… standard, but he wasn’t hard and when he had tried to do it that way, it had been painful and frustrating to both parties. Ivar did not want to hurt Gwyn. Especially while standing naked and vulnerable below her. She might as well feed him his own dick if he wasn’t careful. He found the small nub his brothers always talked about and gave it an experimental flicker. The reaction was instantaneous. Gwyn’s back arched, she convulsed, and a long moan escaped her. 

“Do it again” she whispered, and he obliged. Massaging it gently, he watched in awe as she let out a whine and bended over, kissing him and resting her forehead in the pillow, panting. “It feels… so gooood” 

“That’s your clit” he said, suddenly remembering the name. He continued his exploration, and finally found the opening he was looking for. More wetness welcomed him inside. She moaned mournfully the sudden change of focus and bite him playfully in the shoulder. 

“Well, my clit was feeling great, why did you stop?” she mumbled, and Ivar chuckled. He took away his hand and marvelled at the clear fluid clinging at his fingers. Gwyn cried in protest and began to rose when Ivar took his fingers into his mouth and licked them clean. It was a strange taste, but not unwelcomed. Kind of sweet. In his mind flashed the picture of his brother with Margrete, his mouth firmly attached at her cunt, the noises that had made him hard, the pleasure in the face of the thrall and her cries for more…

His daydream as he sucked on his own fingers made him miss Gwyn’s face, completely lost. She was blatantly staring at him, open mouthed, trembling with desire and crotch aflame and wet for more. 

“What?” she blurted, transfixed. Ivar seemed to come back to himself and smiled. Her heart pounded with renewed vigour in her chest as she watched, fascinated, as he gently placed his hand once again between her legs. 

Something strange between her legs, deeper inside that she ever dared to explore, deeper than any good Christian would even think her cunt went. A gentle touch, and then a sudden shock of pleasure that had her panting and moaning again.

“And that’s your cunt” he said. Ivar’s breath was laboured, his other had was gently kneading her thigh, it was hard for him to speak. The desire flowing through his veins was too much for him. Even his cock stirred, not completely erect, but not flaccid either. “You would want you fingers nice and slick when playing with it, otherwise it might hurt”

A voice without a face, sounded in his mind. It was from a conversation long time ago, with whom he could not recall, and maybe that was why the voice sounded like all of his brothers and none of them, like Floki, like Ragnar. It whispered bits of advice. Snippets of things he had heard or being told. He pushed a little bit harder and felt his finger going inside, the muscles around him tightening. He moved. She moaned again. Another finger came to rub gently around the rim, ready to join the first one as soon as Ivar felt she would be able to take it. Ivar looked at her on top of him, flushed and panting, hips moving in time with his wrist, her hands roaming across her body, not really knowing what to do but unable to stay still. Something was wrong. She had nearly fainted before. He knew it. Frowning, he tried to scoot backwards, reaching blindly around for more pillows to put behind his back. She helped him, though he never ceased his ministrations. Ivar frowned. Right a few minutes before she had to catch herself else she fell upon him. 

Her clit. 

Smiling triumphally, Ivar let his finger slip out of her, only to penetrate her with two at the same time when she opened her mouth to protest as he brought his thumb up to meet her clit. The effect was instantaneous. From her open mouth came a great wail, her eyes opened in shock, and she bit her lip down hard to hush herself. She flushed, embarrassed, and moaned. Her hips began thrusting in earnest, and she fell forward, towards his chest. It couldn’t be very comfortable, been hunched as she was, for she couldn’t press herself fully against him without crushing his hand, or without him removing it, and Gwyn would kill anyone who caused Ivar to stop. He was gently kissing her face, caressing her side and occasionally pinching her nipples, murmuring encouragements in her ear in sweet whispers. 

“That’s it, my Valkyrie” he would murmur in her ear with a voice tight with desire “Would you come for me? Come from my fingers alone?” sometimes, he would mark his words with enticing nips at that point of her head where the neck met the ear. Sometimes he would trace the shell of her ear with his tongue or kiss it carefully. 

“Do you like it? Let me hear it” he said when two fingers became three. At that point Gwyn couldn’t remember why exactly she hadn’t even touched herself down there in all her years. She couldn’t even imagine why she hadn’t jumped Ivar the very moment they had met. For a pleasure such as this she would have done him right there in the bloodstained floor of the church. The thought of blood only incensed her further. Blood of her enemies. Of his enemies. A bloody battlefield where they laid, covered in dirt and grime and gods know what, celebrating. She moved her hips faster, and the bolt of pleasure that had her crying out seemed to last forever. She could feel his fingers inside of her, her muscles contracting, the pleasure building, and she let go, screaming her release for the world to hear. He kept pumping his fingers in and out, his thumb massaging her clit hard and fast until she was limp. 

“And that, my Valkyrie” he said, kissing her with a smile on his lips as he took his hand away and cleaned himself on the sheets of their bed “That’s and orgasm”

“God, I love orgasms” she muttered, completely sated, still twitching with the pleasure of her first orgasm.

That Ivar was quite proud of himself it was pretty obvious. ‘It wasn’t him’ he thought. It was not him being useless or a failure. He had laid with a woman and given her pleasure. Gwyn had come on his fingers alone. It was by his hand that she had found her first release. Another part of him was fairly amused that she hadn’t even touched herself before. Christians were weird. He startled out of his musings when he felt her hand caressing his chest and making a straight beeline for his cock. He easily caught her by the wrist and pulled flush against him, their fingers entwined. He felt her long hair in his skin, tickling him. He looked at their joined hands and smiled. 

“Why don’t you want me to touch you?” she asked, and her voice sounded fairly annoyed for someone who just had an orgasm. Ivar winced. 

“This is enough for now” he answered. But he should have known that his Valkyrie would not accept such a cryptic answer. She sat back, so she was able to look at him, all of him, bare before her eyes. She looked him up and down, but Ivar knew she hadn’t seen a man naked before and was calm. She wouldn’t be able to tell that something was wrong with him. What he did not expected, though, was to feel her kissing him with passion as her hands gently caressed him. She was mimicking his own actions, he realised. Her lips and tongue soon followed the trails her hands had marked before, and the stirring in his loins came back. Ivar looked down at his crotch and saw his traitorous cock still unresponsive. 

“Gwyn” he said, and it sounded more like a sob. That froze her where she sat, and the eyes that looked into his were surprised and worried. 

“Gwyn” he whispered, and gently caressed her face. 

“I know men’s members get hard. Yours it’s not. You found no pleasure in… what we did” He grimaced 

“I had hoped you didn’t notice” Gwyn’s face crumpled.

“I didn’t please you, what did I do wrong? Something feels out of place if you don’t enjoy it too”

“It is not you. It’s me. I am…” Gods, it hurt to admit it “I am broken, so to speak. My cock does not…. I don’t get hard easily” He said easily, because he had been hard before. But those occasions were far and few in between. A mulish expression set over Gwyn’s face. He knew that face. It did not bode well. At least for him.

“But you get hard”

“Sometimes” She was going to call him useless. He knew it. He tried to reason that this was Gwyn, and she was… gods, he hopped she was different.

“Then teach me, so I can make you hard” Gwyn was determined to have him inside her. Not only his fingers. She wanted his cock. Melia had sung the praises of her beau when they had finally done it two summers ago. She had told the story of her wedding night in great details to all their friends and went on and on about how marvellous it was. She wanted that with Ivar. If he had simply said he couldn’t, she might have left him alone. But he had implied it was possible, and now she was curious. It was a challenge and a game, to get him hard. 

“I can please you without my cock, you know?” To make a point, he nipped at her neck and let his hands roam free through her body. She shivered, a smile on her lips.

“I am aware of the fact” she said as nonchalantly as she could. She cocked her head to the side “I won’t touch you if you don’t want, but Would you let me see?”

The strange request caught him by surprise. Ivar wasn’t sure what she meant, but he laid back and nodded his assent. Smiling, Gwyn retreated a few paced, careful not to put much weight on his legs. And then she looked. Well, she stared. Ivar grew nervous as she let her gaze roam. He could feel it in his chest, slowly going down until it reached his cock. It was… Ivar felt the goosebumps appearing the longer she stared. Was it some kind of test? Was there something wrong with it? What?! He was about to think himself into a panic when Gwyn spoke.

“Men are so weird” she muttered, utterly oblivious to the gaping Viking under her “really weird”

“Okay” 

“Hum?” Gwyn raised her gaze only to find Ivar red as a cherry and looking very embarrassed. She didn’t understand why. 

“You can touch me” Ivar said, and gather her hands and gently kissed them. She wasn’t doing it because she wanted to laugh at him. She was genuinely curious about him. It was really cute, and a little bit embarrassing, since he felt the same about her. 

She took him in hand, blushing, and carefully inspected him. Ivar bit his lips and looked at the ceiling. Damn this woman! It was so gentle a caress that it tickled him and aroused him at the same time. He could feel it.

“Oh!” Gwyn exclaimed. His cock was stiffening up in her hand, and she smiled. She looked at him, and saw Ivar with his eyes closed, his breath laboured, his head resting on the pillows. The blush that covered his cheeks was growing, covering his neck and chest. Remembering how good it had felt, she darted forward to lick and suck at his nipples. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t move. Just a gasp and a moan betrayed him. It was enough. Gwyn kept moving her hand, but she didn’t know what to do.

“Ivar… Ivar you have to tell me, you have to guide me, I don’t know what to do” she breathed in his ear, and Ivar moaned again. There was the sound of Ivar spitting, and soon after warm hands took hers away. Ivar tugged at himself with one hand, and then the hand was covering hers, moving it up and down along the shaft, gripping it with surprising strength. She had always thought a man’s member was something to treat carefully, after all, nothing hurt a man more than a kick in the balls. He was panting like mad now, and Gwyn felt again the urgent need of rubbing herself against him. She still had a free hand. She experimentally touched herself, trying to reproduce his touch. She gasped. Why was the priest so against this kind of behaviour? She bit her lip and gently slipped a finger inside. Another gasp. She moved the digit. Another moan. It felt better knowing Ivar was as wrecked as she was. That it was her hand that had him looking at her with hooded eyes and a hungry gaze, biting his lip and moaning. 

Ivar looked as she fingered herself, transfixed. She was moaning and panting, one hand jerking him off and another working between her own legs, trembling and thrusting her hips up. He wanted her. He was hard. He… gods he wanted her so much. He gently took her hand away from his cock and put it on top of his heart. Was she able to feel how fast it beat? 

“My Valkyrie, would you let me fuck you?” Ivar’s heart bled a little bit for the words left unsaid, ‘let me make love to you’. 

“Yes” she moaned, and Gwyn felt her whole body tremble with desire. She allowed Ivar to rearrange them. He was still sitting, propped on the pillows, and she was still on top of him, but he moved them both until she was on her knees, towering above him while his fingers worked on her cunt. 

“Ivar” she whined. She was impatient. She wanted him. Now. Gwyn had found out that after a lifetime of repressing her desires, her needs and her impulses for the Christian way of life, and then being allowed to do as she pleased among the Vikings had rendered impatient and bossy. She tried to take his hand away and lower herself on his member, but failed miserable. Still, the feeling of his member rubbing against her felt good, and she shuddered. Gwyn shot him a look full of desire.

“Ivar, I want you to fuck me. Now” Ivar hugged her to him, leaving a glistening moist trail upon the skin of her buttocks. He gently kissed her, and cupped her cheek with his other hand. Face full of worry betrayed by blue eyes full of fire and desire. 

“You need to be wetter, and more stretched my Valkyrie. Otherwise you will hurt. Bad enough that you shall bleed because of me, let it at least be painless” She huffed. She knew it was going to hurt. She knew she was going to bleed. 

They all have told her what it came with the loss of her maidenhead. She didn’t care, she was intoxicated by the pleasure, and the thoughts that conjured pain and blood to her mind only inflamed her further. Gwyn was pliant under his hands, and she let him move as he pleased. By the time she realised what he was doing, he had slithered down the bed and was lying flat on the bed, his head between her legs. There was no time to ask him about it. His arms dragged her down and she felt his tongue lapping at her. And then he found the little nub above her opening and the sucking began. She let out a scream as she felt her eyes rolling inside her head. She nearly collapsed, but she was bracketed between his strong arms and Ivar kept her up by brute strength alone. He kept assaulting her, licking, nipping, sucking, again and again and again until she felt boneless. She was sure she had at least two more orgasms before he felt satisfied enough to let her go, the first after a thorough round of sucking and the second one when he had the great idea of entering her with three fingers as his tongue drove her crazy. He had to let her gently down, just as he retook his first position sitting on the bed. She was panting. Her voice hoarse from the screams of pleasure he had all but tore from her. Maybe there were some tears at one point, but she couldn’t remember. It could be sweat too, she was covered in it head to toe. 

“Still want to fuck?” he cheekily asked, with his mouth covered in a glistening mix of her own fluids and his saliva. It fell down his chin. He looked every bit the tempting demon he was. 

“Wasn’t that what we were doing?” she asked innocently. She looked down. He was still hard. She smiled and kissed him. It was… peculiar. They kept kissing each other, sweet lazy kisses as they teased each other. 

“Well, yes”

“You are still hard”

“Seems about right” He was, painfully so, and the fact that it had lasted this long was a surprise to him.

“Should do something about it” she muttered, and chuckling, he took her hand and put it on his cock again. This time it was different. It was covered in fluid. Gwyn gave it a few experimental tugs and watched Ivar’s face as she did it. It was easier now that it was wetter. 

“I did not mean that”

“Are you sure?” he asked, and she once again tried to impale herself in his cock. This time she managed to do it, but it was bigger than his fingers. He grunted and she hissed. His hand flew at once to her hips to stop her. They glanced at each other’s eyes. 

“Do it. Ivar” she said, and he kissed her at the same time he pushed her down. There was a flash of pain, but his kiss swallowed the sound that left her mouth. Fully seated inside her, Ivar laid himself back against the pillows, his strong arms around her ensuring she followed. She was resting against his chest and panting in his ear. 

“Are you alright?”

“Hurts” she whispered, still winded from the sudden intrusion.

“Sorry” he said, and gently caressed her face, putting behind her ear a few wild strands of hair “Tell me when it stops” 

They laid entwine like that until the pain had waned a little bit. Gwyn experimentally moved and gasped. Uh. It felt much better than the fingers. Ivar helped her moving, guiding her up and down as she rode him. There was more moaning and panting, cries for more, more, more, harder, faster, there. 

Gwyn’s fingernails left a trail down Ivar’s back and shoulders as he used his strength to move her up and down faster that she could have on her own. They kept kissing each other, frantically moving their hips and clawing at each other’s flesh. Ivar’s hand flew south again and found that place he had called her clit and began playing with it. With a roar, Gwyn came, and soon after Ivar screamed and she felt something flooding her. Ivar guided her down and they laid on the bed, facing each other. 

They fell asleep and did not wake until there was a knock on the door and, without waiting for any response, Hvitserk busted into the room, only to be received by an angry cry from Gwyn, who darted to pull one of the blankets over her naked body, and, then, twisting, she grabbed one of her boots and chucked it at Hvitserk’s head. She did not miss. Ivar had risen upon hearing Gwyn’s cry and had pulled a knife from under the pillows, but after watching his brother falling on his arse from a well aimed shoe he let himself relax. He outright laughed his ass off when right after Hvitserk, Ubbe entered the room. His look of surprise and confusion as he took in the state of the room, full of clothes laying wherever they had landed the night before, and them both in the bed, Ivar please as the cat that got the cream, Gwyn furious and getting ready to throw the second boot, both covered in scratches and love bites. 

“Get out!” Gwyn roared, fastening the blanket around her. Ivar did not move to cover himself, but that wasn’t Gwyn’s problem. Ubbe flushed bright red, apologized and left, dragging Hvitserk by the back of his clothes. The woman left herself fall on the bed with a groan. Ivar chuckled and gently caressed her hair.

“What a way to wake up”

“Indeed, Did you see their faces?” he said, awed and amused. His brothers had had so much fun teasing and humiliating him after, and even before, Margrete’s fiasco, that this little moment was precious to him. Specially because Gwyn hadn’t seemed neither unfaced nor ashamed of being found naked with him.

“They looked so stupid” she said, and then burst out laughing. She didn’t laugh though, when it she realised there was a mess to clean up between her legs. She grimaced as she fetched the basin and the jar of water. She used the stained sheets to clean herself up, and then watched as Ivar did the same. It hit her like a ton of bricks. That blood in there was hers. There was no going back now. She had gone to his bed willingly. Somehow, it was liberating. Gwyn smiled. 

“So, When do I start training?” she asked, just as she pulled fresh clothes out of a trunk. Ivar launched himself of the bed and began rummaging around for his clothing. Gwyn did not offer to help, and he did not ask. Crippled he might be, he could fend for himself.

“Today, if you want. I will send a Shieldmaiden to teach you. Brunhild, maybe. She is good” and the wife of one of Ivar’s allies. But he didn’t say that. Brunhild would keep Gwyn safe. The saxon nodded, and they both went separate ways. Ivar, to the great hall to get some food, and then to the blacksmith. He had already seen that the work was done swiftly, but today he would see if it fitted him. If it worked. He needed her away until his surprise was ready.

Gwyn left to visit Aoife after taking some food with her, to tell her what had happened. Or at least part of it. Gwyn had asked if there were any marks she had to cover right before leaving, afraid Aoife learnt about what she had done so willingly the night before. When she arrived at Aoife’s room, she panicked. The door was broken. Someone had smashed the lock open. 

“No!” She run inside, her heart beating wildly in her chest, only to find Aoife siting in her bed, with a pile of clothes by her side, mending a shirt, humming. She dropped her labour in her lap at her sister’s scream and looked at her with wide panicked eyes.

“Gwyn?!” The elder sister released the air in her chest with a sigh. She let herself fall in the bed by Aoife and hugged her sister tightly.

“The door is broke Aoife, what happened?” and, surprisingly, Gwyn saw her sister become a deep cherry red. She had a small smile on her face as she told her.

“Well… it’s just… you generally come here and let me out quite early you see? And it was past midday… and well… I was hungry. And Thirsty. I thought… I heard people, and I thought that maybe it was another slave and she could fetch you. But it wasn’t. But then again they had been very kind so far…”

“Who?”

“Prince Ubbe and prince Hvitserk” Aoife said, and blushed, ducking her head. Suddenly it seemed her hands were so very interesting. Gwyn had a bad feeling about this. 

“And?”

“Well, they didn’t have any key to the room, and they really wanted to help me, because I told them I was hungry and thirsty and well…”

“Yes?”

“They kind of told me to stay away from the door” she sighed happily, and Gwyn froze “And they broke it. They were very gallant, rescuing me like that. Not at all like heathens. They were…just… like princes in the fairy tales. Prince Hvitserk stayed with me so no one would harm me and prince Ubbe fetched me, Me! Breakfast, and a new robe. Then I asked them if I could repay them somehow and they gave me these shirts to mend. They must be from the battle; they are full of cuts!”

Gwyn was… hallucinating. Clearly. She looked at Aoife and her silly smile and the dreamy look in her eyes. That was all it took? From monstrous savage rapists to gallant princes in one single day? Then again, she wasn’t one to say. She looked at the door and frowned. She would have to move Aoife, and that meant ask Ivar for another room with a proper lock. Ivar. 

“I had to tell you something Aoife. Ivar… ehem. Prince Ivar freed me” Her sister gasped and jumped on her, hugging her tightly. “He did so under the condition that I would train as a shieldmaiden. I’m to be part of his army” 

“But…” Aoife was shocked, and Gwyn winced. Then she smiled “But if you are free, then you can go! You can… leave… oh” 

“You can be free too! Aoife! He will free any woman who wants to fight for him. He will train us! With a sword in our hands, we will never have to be afraid of anyone Aoife! Not an invader, not a man, not anyone! We’ll be free!”

“Fight? But… but Gwyn… that’s not… we can’t! It’s not for maidens…”

“Just think of it Aoife. I know it’s hard, to go against what we have been told all our lives. But we can be free. Something more than wives and mothers. They had female captains. We can have our own business! We don’t have to rely in a father or a husband” Her words had an immediate impact in Aoife. She was silent, shocked, and staring at Gwyn like she had grown a second head. 

“That… is possible?” Gwyn nodded.

“Aoife. I need you to go to all the other women and tell them about Ivar’s offer. He said it in front of his men, he cannot go back on it now. Go, and spread the word, and if we are lucky, we will earn our freedom in more ways than one” Aoife was out of the door before she had finished speaking. Gwyn grabbed her by the arm.

“Aoife. If a free woman is insulted or threatened by a man, it is her right and that of her kin to take vengeance upon the offender. No one will ever hurt them again”

After that Gwyn’s day was a blur. Brunhild had been waiting for her and was angry that she had taken so long to go to her. For that, Gwyn paid her back dearly with sweat and blood as the shieldmaiden drilled her for hours about proper position, how to hold the heavy shield, the sword. How to lunge. By the time Brunhild praised her and declared the end of their training season, all Gwyn was sore. Still, she was happier than she had ever been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooooooooooooooooo
> 
> The sex has arrived to this fic and it's here to stay!!
> 
> Now I really need yo to comment cause it has been a long long time since i wrote anything +18 like this and I need feedback cause honestly i don't know what i am doing most of the time (???)
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter (it's really, really, REALLY LONG)
> 
> Opinions? likes? thoughts? Ideas?
> 
>  
> 
> I love you all so much
> 
> XOXOXOXOXOXOX
> 
> Luna


	17. The negociation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DRAMA IS COMING.
> 
> Or: Gwyn follows orders, Ivar panics, and his los self-steem and short temper combined with his sadism do the rest.

Her days became a blur, all merging into the same pattern: waking up in the morning, have breakfast with Ivar, try and convince Aoife to follow her example, train, have something to eat and try to talk to the thralls, who, aside from Eldrida, weren’t very kin of listening to her and shot her foul looks. After that there was more training, and then she would have a quick snack and drop in her bed, too tired for anything more than a few kisses and caresses before she was dead to the world. 

Another two weeks passed and found her half asleep, soaking in a tub full of steaming hot water at Ivar recommendation, nursing the black and blue marks that covered her skin and her sore muscles, when the repetitive sound of a crutch on the stony floor shaking her out of her rest. She turned around at the same time the door opened with a bang.

“My Valkyrie!” came Ivar’s cry, but, when she looked at where his face was supposed to be, she saw what only could be described as armour firmly tied around twisted and slightly bent legs. She stared at his knees, frowning. 

“What the…” Ivar was walking. He walked towards her, fumbling and grapping the crutch. Gwyn was up and out of the tub in an instant. Ivar’s smile was brighter than the sun. And a little terrifying. They stared at each other for a moment, Gwyn taking in the new contraption around his legs and his new height, and him blatantly ogling her. 

“What do you think?” He asked, hopeful and happier than he had been before. He had been working on it since they had arrived. Talking to the blacksmiths, drawing plans, consulting here and there. He only had hastened through his plans because he wanted to stand by Gwyn’s side. His brothers had been surprised speechless at his new legs, and he had rushed to his room, well, walked as fast as he could while still dealing with his underdeveloped muscles and the weirdness of the metal around his legs. He had wanted to show Gwyn that he was whole now. A man. A warrior. But she was staring at him, frowning. First to his legs, then to his face. He could see the top of her head now. Would she be mad if he kissed her there? 

“It’s terrible. You are taller than me now” she said, and then smiled. Her arms came up and surrounded him. He enjoyed the sweet smell of the soap and oils she had used in her bath, as she gave a soft kiss to his cheek. Ivar laughed, and then kissed the top of her head. It felt good. 

“You are all wet” he said. She hadn’t bothered with a towel in her surprise, and now the floor and Ivar were soaked. 

“Well, not there yet, but I can be” she answered, cheeky and teasing as always. Ivar smiled a sad smile. Ha hadn’t been able to get hard since that very first night, and it always managed to sour his mood. 

“Don’t tease, you are all covered in bruises, go to the bed, I will get the ointment” he said, kissing her lips and gently nudging her to the bed. He turned around for the pot of ointment for her bruises he had given her after the first day of training. He nearly had a heart attack and was tempted to go and have word with Brunhild, but it turned out that Gwyn bruised pretty easily, and was delighted to have such a great teacher. He ended up sending her a brooch as a thank you gift instead.

“No, wait” She grabbed his arm and gently caressed it. Ivar arched an eyebrow, and then smiled. He knew that expression in her face, he had come to know it well in the past week. “I want to try something”

“And what would that something be?” Her mischievous smile had him fearing for the worse.

“Let me suck you dick” Ivar dropped his crutch and sputtered, speechless. He then lost his balance, falling on top of Gwyn, who tried to hold him up but ended on the floor too. Ivar was incredibly embarrassed. He tried to move and felt her sobbing beneath him. He panicked. Had he injured her? By the time he managed to right himself, he realised she was actually laughing. 

Her whole body shook with it. Soon he was laughing too, laying there between her legs, with her arms around him. They weren’t sure who was the one who started it. First there was one kiss, and then another, and another, and things escalated until Gwyn was too busy panting and moaning as Ivar worked his fingers inside her to even remember what she had asked for in the first place. The second orgasm took her harder than the first, the oversensitivity making the pleasure reach a new high that had her head swimming in cottons. She held on for dear life to Ivar’s back, leaving a trail of scratches as she dug her fingernails in his flesh. Ivar hadn’t imagined that he could possibly feel good without an erection or without actually shoving his cock into someone. He was surprised when a bolt of desire and pure bliss shocked him when he felt her tightening around his fingers. The week of practice had paid off. He knew exactly where to touch to drive Gwyn mad with lust, and he put all his knowledge into their lovemaking, as for Ivar he was sure it could never be fucking, not with his Valkyrie. He was hellbent on showing her he could please her, even with his useless cock. It felt so good to feel her writhing beneath him, her body arching to meet his fingers, her breath warm and moist in his cheek, her hands clutching him like she would die if she let go. Her nails digging in his flesh sent shivers up his spine. He couldn0t help but moan at the thousand sensations, and he outright screamed in pleasure when she actually drew blood when he made her peak a third time. 

They laid in a pile on the floor, enjoying each other’s warmth, until the hardness of the wood made them move to the bed. Gwyn helped Ivar up and fetched him his crutch. This time she took a little bit more of time to properly look at him. 

“A very smart contraption” she commented “Does it pain you?” Gwyn reached out to touch the metal around his legs. 

“Not much, but it has its moments. I hope it will better as the muscles gain strength” Ivar smiled when Gwyn kissed his cheek and snuggled closer in response. 

He sighed, He hated to ask this. He didn’t want to. First because it would put her in a very delicate position, and she had only been training for a month. For all that Brunhild sung her praises, it wasn’t nearly enough. Second. In all her fights against seasoned warriors this far, she had had a lot of luck, which made her overconfident. This could end badly for both of them. At the same time, Ivar couldn’t resist testing her. She stood by his side now, but, after everything, there was something in the back of his head that whispered poison in his ears. She hardly had any other choice but him after all. 

“What’s wrong?” The worry in her voice twisted the knife in Ivar’s gut.

“I have a mission for you” That caught her interest. She was smiling, radiant, even covered in black bruises as she was. Perhaps even more so, as they were the mark of her hard work and determination. Brunhild had said Gwyn always kept coming at her, no matter how many times she was thrown back. 

“What about?”

“My brothers” She stiffened. He knew she knew he knew. 

It was no surprise to anyone that his brothers were pushing for settling. They wanted to negotiate, of all things, right when they had all but crushed the Saxons. It had divided the army and caused a lot of tensions. His relationship with his brothers had soured, and it did not help that Hvitsek kept sniffing around Aoife like a lovesick puppy. Gwyn was tense all the time around him, very much like during those first days when they would very much try and kill each other. Sending Gwyn as an in-between calmed Ubbe and had Hvitserk practically falling all over himself to please Gwyn in hopes of getting to Aoife but had the downside of having Gwyn permanently alert and mad. Fiercely mad. She snapped at other warriors and was more protective of Aoife, who still resisted all her attempts to become a warrior. Eldrida had accepted two weeks after seeing Gwyn free and training. The change had been immediate. After she had been given a room and began training, Gwyn and her cousin had disappeared one night in silence, and the next day the men that used to own Eldrida couldn’t be found in all of York. Some people claimed it was witchcraft and looked upon Eldrida with fear. He, who had heard the story of the catacombs from Gwyn, knew better. 

“What do you need?” she asked, and one look at her face, serious, determined and grim, had him grimacing. 

“They will go and try to bargain with the Saxons. Tonight. I need you to…”

“Stop them?” she said it with a flat voice and a hard, dark look in her eyes. It was clear she did not like the implication. But she would do it. 

“Go with them. Help them. I just want them to come back in one piece. Your people will no take kindly to them begging for scraps” Ivar was not that cruel. Maybe she had meant to stall them in some way. Maybe it was said with murder in mind. He didn’t want to lose them. They were their brothers. They were his family. With mother and father dead, Floki gone, Lagertha hanging above them like a never-ending threat, the oath of vengeance that alienated Bjorn even before Ivar drew first blood, Ubbe and Hvitserk were the only ones left. They were his brothers. They had cared for him. Fed him, clothed him. They had carried him on their backs. 

“No, they will not” She sighed. Gwyn knew better than Ivar how her people, probably infused with a healthy dose of christian righteousness in their crusade against the wicked heathens, would probably kill them. Or use them as hostages. And they would be valuable ones. Ivar was ruthless, but he didn’t want his brothers dead. Right under his heel where he could control them, yes, but not killed by an angry bunch of christian soldiers seeking to avenge the death and loss the Vikings had caused “Don’t worry. I will go with them, tell them some story. And I will make sure they come back whole”

One look at the darkening sky prompted her to move. She started to look around for the long forgotten saxon dresses that were hidden in a chest in a corner of the room. She opened it. She could smooth things over. Tell some tale about the heathens seeing the wrong of their ways, of wanting to learn a gentler way and the word of the lord. Gwyn had always spun the best tales, if Aoife was to be believed. Then again, Gwyn didn’t want to be a delicate saxon flower if things got sticky. The chance she could get to a weapon was low, and after months of trousers, the idea of a dress was not very appealing. In the end she closed the chest again and turned towards the one that had her everyday clothes. Ivar liked to give her clothes he had gotten from god knows where, and she had a pretty nice collection. Dark clothes for dark times. No use in giving them a willing target. First a protective warm layer, then her chainmail, a thick shirt of iron rings intertwined. Another gift from Ivar. The heavy leather boots and the leather vest were a gift from Brunhild. Both items had iron etched into them for extra protection. She drew her cloak around herself. 

“Swear you will be careful” Ivar said and beckoned her to go to him. She knelt in the bed, leaning over him so she could kiss him.

“I swear” He raised his arms and dragged her down by the neck until they were nose to nose.

“Swear you will return” They kissed again, a lazy long kiss. It was a sweet kiss, a lover’s kiss. She did not spoke. It wasn’t necessary. Ivar watched her go, realising with terrifying shock that his heart was walking out of the door, beating in her chest. 

He did not sleep that night. He paced his room, testing his new legs. He measured the steps he needed to get from one side to the other. He looked out of the window. She had said he was tall. He supposed he was. Taller than Hvitserk. Taller than some of his men. He hadn’t been tall enough to look out of this window a mere day ago. Time past, morning came, and he went to the great hall. Each minute without Gwyn only incensed him further. Those two idiots were the one who were unreasonable. Or at least Ubbe was, for he knew Hvitserk didn’t do much thinking of his own if there was someone to do it for him. They were the ones who wanted to settle when they could just conquer. The one who force him to put Gwyn in danger. She was resourceful, and a saxon woman. They were soft for them, even if they considered them useless. If a saxon woman pleaded for their lives, they might be allowed to live to see the sun. Or they might die, and Gwyn will be left alone in the saxon camp. Trapped, for she did not have a reason good enough to leave her people after what they would assume were months of torment. Or maybe Gwyn sill willingly stay. She would at last rid herself of the cripple idiot who thought he could be loved by someone that had seen the monster he was. His thoughts were getting darker and darker, and by the time they announced the arrival of his brothers he was in a foul mood. 

They were alone. He kept staring behind them, waiting for Gwyn to appear out of nowhere. He took a look at their appearance. Battered, bruised. Humiliated. Where was Gwyn? He cut them to ribbons with his words, berating them for being such fools. After they looked chastened enough, he managed to rally the courage to ask.

“Where is Gwyn?” The look in his eyes was enough. He roared like a beast in pain “What happened to her” he hissed. Odin have mercy on them if it had been their fault… But of course, it was their fault. It was their fault they made him sent her they made him do it. Oh, gods it was his fault he was an idiot he had gotten her killed and now she was gone. 

“She stayed” Ubbe said, and he couldn’t meet Ivar’s eyes. He clenched his fists. His jaw was tense.

“What. Did. You. Say?”

“She stayed behind” Ubbe repeated.

“Aoife and Eldrida too” Hvitserk all but whined, the little bitch. Ivar was furious. He wanted to scream until his throat was bloody. Then it dawned on him.

“What do you mean Aoife and Eldrida?” Ubbe was still staring at the floor, fists and jaw clenched painfully. The bastard better give him the full story, or Ivar would get it out of him one lash at a time. 

“They followed us. Gwyn met us at the gates, said she was coming too, to help us present a friendlier front. After a while we realised, we were being followed. It was Eldrida and Aoife. We helped them to our horses and got to the christian camp…”

“Speed it up” Ivar growled. He only wanted to know why Gwyn was not here.

“They caught us, they beat us. One of them recognized them. He was his kin. They talked and come morning they let us go. Alone. End of story” Ivar growled.

“And Gwyn?”

“With them” Answered Ubbe. Ivar was tempted to strike him down then and there. He needed answers. What man, who was he? Hope bloomed in his chest. Gwyn would come back soon. She needed time to escape without being seen. She will arrive. Soon. 

She did not come that day, nor the next. Weeks passed and there was no trace of her at all. He did not ask his brothers about her again. They were subdued and broken. He took a secret, and not so secret pleasure in seen Ubbe brought down low like this.

The shock and incredulity soon gave way to anger. A fierce anger that ate him inside. He would torch her land and sow it in salt. He will find her and make her pay. He already had a dozen plans. Maybe he could even demand her return in exchange for a reprieve. Maybe he would make her people turn against her and tear her apart. Maybe he would tear her apart himself, and bathe in her blood. 

 

When he called for the thrall, he wasn’t sure why he did it. He only wanted to erase her from his mind. To stop thinking of her warmth, or her touch or her laughter. Her eyes haunted him in his sleep, proud and laughing, full of disdain. He heard her whisper in the dark that he had been a fool, that a cripple could never be loved, that the only two people who ever loved him were dead and gone. 

Her name was Freydis, and she believed he was touched by the gods. Her loyalty was absolute and her devotion strong. When he took her to bed, he made sure she screamed for them all to hear. Ivar made use of all his skill to pry from her throat the loudest screams he could. He wanted them all to hear. He wanted her to hear, all the way in the saxon camp. Freydis didn’t mind his legs. Or his cock. She whispered in his ear about the gods, and how he was their chosen one. Freydis would stay. Freydis would love him, because he was of the gods, and she loved the gods. 

Ubbe wasn’t happy at all with his actions. He didn’t say anything to Ivar. He didn’t have to. He glared at him all the time. Barely spoke to him. In the end, the tension exploded. Ubbe, in his quiet rage, gathered his men and decided to sail back to Kattegat. Ivar felt a sick pleasure on his brother’s betrayed expression when Hvitserk decided to stay with him. Even if he angered him by constantly asking about Aoife. Wasn’t Ivar going to try to get them back? Would Aoife be alright with so many christians and their prejudice against deflowered maidens? They should take responsibility, it was their fault, he had said. Ivar had taken to pinch and prod his brother constantly in retaliation. He tasked Hvitserk with the hardest most denigrating thing to do in the camp, all along while keeping tabs on Freydis. He was over Gwyn. That wench was only a slave. Nothing more. A pet. A… project, of some sorts.

It hurt even more that no matter how many times he repeated those lines in his head, his bed still felt too big, too cold, and too empty. Sometimes he caught himself turning to his side to share a private joke or a snippy remark about this or that with Gwyn, only to find that she wasn’t there and that she wasn’t coming back. He was angrier than usual. He sent raiding parties around, brought back priests, tortured them. He bathed himself in the blood of her people like it would wash away her memory but only left him feeling hollow. Gwyn, bloodthirsty as she was, wouldn’t approve of this. In the end, he closeted himself in his war room.

When the siege started, Ivar smirked viciously. He already had a plan. They would give them the city. And if that traitor and her family were so stupid to come back, thinking they had won… He would kill the warriors and drag Gwyn and her family behind his chariot. It was a great honour he would give them. They would share Aelle’s fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!! Hope you liked my story so far, Would you please take a moment and leave a comment?
> 
>  
> 
> There will be a lot of DRAMA on Ivar's side because he's the god of drama. WORRY NOT. Gwyn will smack him up the head when she returns. Hard. 
> 
>  
> 
> I love you lots guys
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> XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
> 
> Luna

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment (did you like it? what do you think of it? how can i improve it?), and leave kudos if you liked the story
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> please do click that kudo thingy if you liked it, it really makes me write faster. Same with comments, they feed my soul!!
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> Love you all
> 
> Luna


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